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SKETCHES OE THE WAR: 



A SERIES OF 



f ttto to t\t Itarilr fport Stmt Stfeuol 



OIF NEW YORK. 



BT 



CHARLES C. NOTT, 

CAPTAIN IN THE FIFTH IOWA CAVALRY AND TRUSTEE OF PUBLIC SCHOOLS IS TBK 
CITT OF NEW YORK. 



IEW YORK: 

CHARLES T, EVANS, 448 BROADWAY. 

186a. 



Entekkd according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by 
CHARGES C. NOTT. 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. 






"W. H. Tinson, Stereotypes 



WILLIAM B. EAGER, Jr., 

A» UNWAVERING FEIEND AND FAITHFUL SCHOOL OFFICER, 

THESE SKETCHES ARE INSCRIBED. 



CONTENTS 



• •♦■ 



PAGH 



I.— The Hospital, .7 

II. — Donelson, 20 

III.— The Assault, . . 29 

IT. — Foraging, • • . .42 

V.— A Flag of Truce, 56 

YI— The Holly Fork, 75 

VII.— Scouting, 88 

Vin.— A Surprise, 109 

IX.— The Escape, 135 

X.— The Last Scout, 154 



SKETCHES OF THE WAR 



THE HOSPITAL. 

Camp Benton, Missouri, Jan. 10, 1862. 

Tour New Tear's gift arrived, and I gratefully 
acknowledge its receipt. Accompanying it were reports, 
compositions and school news, which have carried mo 
back so completely to North Moore street that I feel 
like omitting a formal reply to your committee's note, 
and speaking familiarly as of old to you. 

I said that the box arrived, but not in time for New 
Tear's day. It did not reach St. Louis till the 2d, and 
it was not until Saturday night that I met four men 
carrying it through the deep prairie mud of the camp 
to my quarters. 

The men naturally wondered what the box contained, 
but I much more. I had been looking for a little 
parcel from home that a man could carry up in his 
saddle-bags, and was astonished to see this ponderous 
box coming in its stead. I therefore proceeded to open 
it with the greatest dispatch, and then devoted the 
evening to examining your work, reading the reports, 



8 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

criticising the compositions, and imagining myself at 
the presentation of the premiums. The picture of the 
gay and lighted school, dressed in its Christmas green 
and decked with excited faces, was a contrast to the 
real picture around me of dark and crowded barracks, 
and sick and wearied men. 

The next day was Sunday, but as we have no church 
in camp, I thought I might devote part of the after- 
noon to reviving the drooping spirits of my men. It 
had been a dull New Tear for them ; no presents had 
come ; it was a long time since they had been paid ; the 
wretched government clothes were soiled and torn; 
and home letters speaking of happy holidays and 
wishing " happy New Year," had found them on New 
Year's day going through their every day drudgery 
and drill — very different this from their usual New 
Year, and I fear that many sighed and wished the war 
were over and they at home again. 

So I had the squadron assembled, and gave them a 
little history of our school — of General Scott's visit just 
two years ago — of our former friendly intercourse with 
the traitor Meminger — of the boys' call on Major 
Anderson, and the girls' work for the Ulster Guard and 
the hospitals — and of such things as I thought would 
interest them most. The bags and stockings were 
then placed on a platform, the roll was called, and each 
man came up and chose a set for himself — the gayest 
colors being generally the favorites. As the men 
received them they eagerly read the names and mottoes 



THE HOSPITAL. 9 

attached, and for a little while there was the babel of 
familiar names so often heard during a school recess. 
Then the noise subsided, and the men forgetting it was 
Sunday, gave the three heartiest cheers I have heard 
for a long while, and then they gathered around me to 
repeat messages of thanks, generally ending with the 
remark : " Well, after all, somebody does care for us I" 

This letter has been delayed by an event which has 
greatly depressed us. Partly, because it is one side of 
the war picture which does not often find a place in the 
newspapers, and partly, because it over fills my own 
thoughts at this time, I will relate it to you. 

There was a young man in my squadron whom I 
shall call Frank Giilman. He was the son of a "Wis- 
consin farmer, and had enlisted in the ranks as a 
patriotic duty. Frank was young and handsome, a 
fine horseman, and rode one of the handsomest horses 
in the squadron. He was just the person whom one 
would suppose sure to rise from the ranks and perforin 
many a gallant feat during the war. A few weeks ago 
the horse was reported sick. It had but a cold, and we 
thought that a few days would find it well again. But 
the cold grew worse and changed to pneumonia, a 
disease of the lungs - fearfully prevalent here among 
both men and horses. 

Frank nursed and watched his horse day and night, 
counting the beatings of its pulse, consulting the far- 
rier, administering the medicine as though the horse 
were his best friend. It was fruitless labor; for the 

1* 



10 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

poor animal stood hour after hour panting with droop- 
ing head, occasionally looking sadly up as if to say, 
" you can do me no good," until at last it died. We 
all felt sorry for the poor horse, but did not think his 
death was the forerunner of a greater loss. 

In the middle of December, the surgeon reported 
Frank sick with measles. The cold draughts through 
the barracks are peculiarly dangerous to this disease, 
and it is also contagious ; and hence it is an inflexible 
rule to send patients at once to the hospital. The 
ambulance came, Frank was helped in, and I bid him 
good bye, expecting (for it was but a slight attack) that 
he would return soon. 

A fortnight passed, and he was reported convalescent ; 
the measles had gone, but there was a cough remain- 
ing ; he had better wait awhile till quite restored. 

Once or twice I tried to go to the hospital, which was 
a mile distant from camp ; but there is a rule forbidding 
officers to leave the camp except with a pass, and the 
passes are limited in number and dealt out in turn — my 
turn had not come. My last application was the Sun- 
day I presented your gift, but it was refused. On 
Monday, I sent some letters which had come for 
Frank down to the hospital. An hour or two after- 
wards the letters came back. I took them— they were 
unopened — there was a message : " Frank Giilman is 
dead." 

During the two or three preceding days, the cough 
had run into pneumonia. The surgeons had not sent 



THE HOSPITAL. 11 

word — they had no one to send — there were so many 
such cases. I had not been there, because it was con- 
trary to camp regulations; and thus, with a family 
within the telegraph's call and some old friends within 
the neighboring barracks, poor Frank had died alone 
in the cheerless wards of a public hospital. 

"When it was too late to receive a last message or 
soothe a dying hour, a pass could be obtained. I took 
with me a corporal, an old friend of Frank's. As we 
rode along, I made some inquiries and learned that 
Frank was the eldest child, and the pride of his family. 
There had doubtless been anxious forebodings when he 
enlisted, and tears when he departed. " It will break 
his father's heart when he hears of this," said the 
corporal. 

Ordinarily it would have been a great relief to ride 
beyond the camp enclosure ; for the sense of confine- 
ment and the constant sight of straight rows of men 
going through their endless angular movements become 
very irksome after a while, and awaken a strong desire 
to be unrestrained yourself and to see people in their 
natural, every day life. But now we felt too oppressed 
for enjoying our unexpected liberty, and except when I 
was asking the questions I have spoken of, we rode in 
dreary silence, thinking of the painful duty before us, 
and of the distant family soon to be startled by the 
fatal message, and informed that they had given a 
victim to the guilty rebellion. 

At length we reached the " Hospital of the Good 



12 SKETCHES OF THE- WAR. 

Samaritan." It is situated on the outskirts of the city, 
and has been taken by the Government for soldiers 
sick with contagions diseases. The building is large 
and not unpleasant, the ceilings high, and the rooms 
cheerfully lighted. There seemed to be such comforts 
as can be bought and sold, and the attendants ajypeared 
kind and diligent. But here I must stop on the favor- 
able side. As I looked around, I learned why soldiers 
dread the hospital. The cots were close together, with 
just room enough to pass between, and on every cot 
lay a sick man. At the sound of the opening door, 
some looked eagerly toward us — others turned their 
eyes languidly — and others again did not change their 
vacant gaze, too weak to care who came or went 
away. There were faces flushed with fever, others 
pale and thin, and others with the pallor of death 
settling upon them, the lips muttering unconsciously in 
delirium, and the fingers nervously picking the bed 
clothes. Here was a man who had just arrived, timid 
and anxious ; and on the next cot was one who would 
soon depart on the last march. 

I went into the room where my lost soldier had taken 
his farewell, hoping to gather from the other occupants 
some last words or message for the dear ones of his 
home. The cot was still empty. I went up to the 
next patient and whispered my question, " Did you 
know the young man who died this morning ?" The 
man shook his head and said, " ~No> I was too sick ;" and 
lie glanced nervously at the empty cot so close beside 



THK HOSPITAL, 13 

him. I passed round and asked the next. He half 
opened his closed eyes, but made no reply. It was too 
plain he could not. I had not observed how soon he 
would follow Frank. I went to the night attendant, 
who had come round about midnight, and had spoken to 
Frank of the coming change. He had been resigned 
and had expressed regrets only for his family and 
country, and a wish to live for them. " He said this 
with great energy," said the attendant, " and I wondered 
how a dying man could feel so much. But after that 
he became flighty ; and as there were only three of us 
to over one hundred patients, I had to go and leave 
him. He died about sunrise." Did he continue 
delirious ? or was he conscious through those last 
lonely hours ? and did he wish for some fond hand to 
support his head, some kind ear to receive his parting 
words ? I hoped the former. A crowded hospital is a 
lonely place wherein to die. 

" Will you see the body f " said the superintendent. 
We all have a natural repugnance to death, but in 
addition to this repugnance I remember the face of a 
friend with such distinctness that it is painful for me to 
impress on the living picture in my memory the marred 
and broken image of the dead. I therefore seldom join 
in the usual custom of viewing the corpse at funerals — > 
never, if I can avoid it without giving pain to those 
who do not understand my motives. It consequently 
was with more than usual reluctance that I discharged 
this duty of ascertaining that no terrible mistake had 



14 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

occurred among the number coming and going, and 
dying in the hospital. "We went down-stairs to the base- 
ment. Hitherto my experience with death had been 
only that of funerals, in the calm and quiet of peaceful 
life, where all that is most painful is softened or hidden, 
and death made to take the semblance of sleep. I can 
hardly say that I expected to see, as usual, the solitary 
coffin and its slumbering tenant, yet I certainly antici- 
pated nothing different. " This is the dead-room," said 
the superintendent, as he unlocked and threw open a 
door. The name was the first intimation of something 
different. It was a narrow, gloomy room, and on the 
stone pavement, lay four white figures. They were 
decently attired in the hospital shroud, but the accus- 
tomed concealments of the undertaker's art were want- 
ing. The staring eyes, the open mouth, the contracted 
face left little of the usual sleep-like repose of death. 
It was a ghastly sight. I felt like shrinking back to the 
outer air, but had to enter the room. The superin- 
tendent did not know Frank, so I was obliged to look 
at each. I glanced at the first. He was a young man 
with fair hair, and what had been bright blue eyes. 
They seemed to return my look so consciously that for 
a moment I could not avert my gaze. The look seemed 
to say, " You do not know me : we are strangers who 
have never met before, will never meet again." I 
glanced at the second, at the third. All were strangers, 
and all were young. The fourth I recognized. The 
room was so narrow that the figures reached from wall 



THE HOSPITAL. 15 

to wall, and as we went forward we had to step over 
each prostrate form. The corporal followed me, and 
looked long and earnestly at his friend. There had 
been no mistake. As we went out my eyes involun- 
tarily turned to the others. It was probably the only 
look of pity they received. " Did they die during the 
night?" I inquired. "Yes!" "And has no officer or 
friend been with them?" " No !" " When will they be 
buried ?" " In the afternoon." This, I fear, was all 
their funeral service. " Did they anticipate such a 
death and such a burial when they came from distant 
pleasant homes to serve in the great army?" I asked 
myself. And as I looked on them, thus neglected and 
deserted, I thought of the families and friends who 
would give much to stand as I stood beside them, to 
weep over their coffins, and to go with them to the 
grave. 

The remains of my soldier it was determined should 
be sent to his family. He was dressed in his uniform, 
and on the following day the railroad swiftly carried 
him back to his old home. 

"When all was over, I gathered together his few 
effects. This the law makes the duty of an officer. 
There were also some unanswered letters to be returned 
— pleasant letters, beginning, " Dear Frank, we wish 
you merry Christmas!" and hoping he would have 
happy holidays in camp. And there was one touch of 
melancholy romance added ; for hidden in the recesses 
of his pocket-book was a tress of hair, and on the 



16 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

wrapper a name ; a letter, too, with the same signature. 
I determined that no curious eyes should run over 
these, and that they should not be the subject for 
careless tongues ; so I carefully placed them in a sepa- 
rate package and sent them to one who perhaps will 
grieve the most. 

Ja/nuary \§th. 

And since I commenced this addition to my letter, 
there has been another interruption — a second victim of 
an unhealthy camp and crowded barracks. His death, 
poor boy, possessed fewer circumstances of interest. 
He was a German, with no family circle to be broken ; 
a sister here, a brother there, and parents in a distant 
land. When told of Frank's death he seemed anxious, 
and whispered me that there were many dying in the 
hospital. The surgeon said there was no danger, but I 
saw it did not reassure him. On Sunday I got leave 
to send down one of my men, who was his friend, to 
the hospital, to be with him as a night nurse. On 
Monday I rode down. "How is Leonard?" was the 
first question to the surgeon. " He is very low," was 
the answer. I went up to his room. His friend sat 
by the cot, holding his hand. But the eyes were 
glazed, the pulse had stopped, and all was over. He 
had just died. 

You may wish to know something of a soldier's 
funeral, not such as we have in Broadway, with music 
and processions, but such as are occurring here. 



THE HOSPITAL. 17 

I asked leave for the squadron to attend the funeral, 
and the colonel said certainly, all who wished should 
go. At the appointed time we mounted and rode 
slowly to the hospital, accompanied by the chaplain of 
the regiment. We reached it soon, and the men were 
drawn up in line. Even in such scenes military disci- 
pline enables us to move more easily and rapidly than 
in ordinary life. A few commands in an unusually 
subdued voice were given. "Prepare to dismount." 
" Dismount !" " Ones and threes hold horses, twos and 
fours forward." Half of the squadron then passed by 
the coffin, and then relieved the others in holding the 
horses. All was done so quietly and quickly that it 
formed a contrast to a similar scene at an ordinary 
funeral. The ambulance came to the door. The 
ambulance carries the sick to the hospital, and the 
dead to the grave : it is the soldier's litter and his 
hearse. 

About a mile from the hospital is the "Wesley an 
cemetery. I had ridden by it during the soft summer 
weather of the fall, and remarked how prettily it is 
situated upon the brow of a hill, with the city in view 
upon one side and the quiet country on the other, while 
large trees and mournful evergreens give an air of 
sadness and seclusion. It was a relief when the am- 
bulance turned toward this peaceful resting place; 
though I wish that a soldiers' cemetery had been laid 
out where the numbers who die in St. Louis and the 
country around it, might rest together. We entered, 



18 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

and I quickly remarked a change since last I had 
passed that way. On one side, where had been a 
smooth, green lawn, there were straight rows and ranks 
of mounds, so regular and close that the ground looked 
as though it had been trenched by some thrifty gar- 
dener. These were the soldiers' graves. There were 
many — many of them. Two grave diggers were at 
work — constant work for them. A grave was always 
ready prepared, and one was ready for us. Our cere- 
monies were few and simple — the squadron drew up in 
line — the coffin was lifted out — the chaplain made a 
prayer — and we returned. 

But in the same ambulance were two other coffins. 
No companion had been with them at the hospital, and 
no friends followed them to the grave. Unknown and, 
save by us chance strangers, unnoticed, they were laid 
to rest. This loneliness of their burial was very sad. 
We gave them all we could — a sigh, and paid them 
such respect as the circumstances allowed. "We did not 
know them — who they were, or whence they came — 
only this, that they were American soldiers, fallen for 
their country. 

I have heard it said that this war will make us a 
very warlike people. It is a mistake. Those who are 
engaged in it, while they will be ready again to rise in 
a just cause, will never wish for another war. I under- 
stand now why officers of real experience — be they ever 
so brave — always dread a war. There are too many 
such scenes as I have described. Yet do not think that 



THE HOSPITAL. 19 

any waver in their determination— and, while you pity, 
do not waver yourselves. We may blame mismanage- 
ment and neglect ; and we must try to alleviate suffer- 
ing and prevent needless disease and death, and only in 
the restoration of our Union hope for peace. 

i 



20 SKETCHES OF THE WAB. 

H. 

DO NELSON. 

Fort Henry, Tennessee, Feb. 22d } 1862. 

Some letters from E~ew York have said, " If you are 
ever in battle, do describe it." In this curiosity I have 
myself shared, and have always longed to know not 
only how the scene appeared, but how the spectator 
felt. I am able now to answer the question, and in 
so doing I will try and describe to you precisely how 
the attack appeared to me, without entering into an 
account of anything but what I saw, and how I felt. 

It was by accident that I was at Fort Donelson, and 
with the attacking column. My regiment left me at 
St. Louis attending a court-martial. The court adjourned 
soon afterward, and then, with another member, an 
officer of the Fourteenth Iowa, I started for Fort Henry. 

"We descended the Mississippi to the narrow point 
where the Ohio joins it, and on which are the fortifica- 
tions of Cairo. At Cairo there were no boats, save those 
of the government, conveying troops, and on one of 
these we went. It was the McGill, and on board was 
the regiment which was to lead the assault at Fort 
Donelson, the Second Iowa. 

Up to the time of starting we supposed that the 
destination of the boat was Fort Henry, on the Tennes- 
see. It was then announced, Fort Donelson on the 



D0NELS0N. 21 

Cumberland. We glided slowly up the Ohio, against 
its swollen current, and passed the mouth of the Ten- 
nessee during the night. I arose with the first gleam 
of light, and went on deck to find that we had entered 
the Cumberland. It seemed a narrow river, winding 
amid wooded hills and banks covered with noble oaks. 
The soldiers, who had passed the warm, moonlit night 
on deck, were rising, one by one, folding blankets and 
packing knapsacks. I turned from them to the river, 
and looked curiously for the people who dwelt in this, 
the rebel part of Kentucky. 

For a short time there was nothing but woods. Then 
a little log house appeared upon the bank, a shed 
beside it, with its single horse and cow. It was a 
humble home, and hardly worth a second glance, a 
hundred such might be seen on the banks of any river; 
but in front of the door stood a sturdy little flag-staff, 
and from it waved the stars and stripes. The family 
had risen at the sound of the steamer. The mother 
stood in the doorway, holding an infant, and wav- 
ing an apron. A little girl near by timidly tossed 
her hood around her head. Two ragged boys at the 
water's e-dge swung their caps joyfully. The father 
stood on a stump, hurrahing alone but lustily ; and over 
thsm, in the dim grey light, fluttered their little flag. 
" They mean it," " They are honest," " There's no make- 
believe there," were the exclamations of the soldiers, as 
they crowded to the side of the boat and answered the 
father and his boys with their louder cheers. This was 



22 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

the first house we saw, and the warmest welcome we 
received ; for though many hats were waved to us 
during the day, and a few flags shown, none equalled, 
in their manifest sincerity, the inmates of the little log 
house. 

The day was soft and beautiful. We passed it upon 
the upper deck, laughing, chatting, and watching the 
shifting scenery of the winding river. A pleasure 
excursion it seemed to all; and again and again some 
one would remark, "~We may be on the brink of battle, 
yet it seems as though we were travelling for pleasure." 

Among the rough exteriors which campaigning gives, 
two officers of the Second were remarkable for their 
neat appearance. Some jokes were made at their 
expense, calling them the dandies of the regiment, and 
their state-rooms the band-boxes; and it was agreed 
that they were too handsome to be spoilt by scars. 
Two days afterward one of these, Captain Sleighmaker, 
fell at the head of his company, heroically charging the 
rebel breastworks. A little later, as I was galloping 
for the surgeons, I passed a wounded officer, borne by 
four soldiers in a blanket. As I rode by he called out, 
" "We have carried the day, Captain." I looked around 
and saw it was the other, Major Chipman. "Are you 
badly hurt, Major," I said, pulling up my horse. " JSTo, 
not badly," he answered. "Don't stop for me;" and 
when the surgeon arrived he refused to have his wound 
dressed, and sent him to his men. 

But to return to my narrative. In the afternoon we 



DONELSON. 23 

overtook twenty steamboats laden with troops, and led 
by four black gunboats. A singular sight it was to see 
so imposing a fleet making its way up so small a stream. 
Night came, and with it a change of weather — intense 
cold and snow. When morning broke I found we had 
made fast to the western shore. On either bank were 
high and wooded hills. The gunboats lay anchored 
in the middle of the stream, all signs of life hidden 
beneath their dark decks, save the white steam that 
slowly issued from their pipes, and floated gracefully 
away* Far down the river could be seen the troop- 
laden transports, moored to the trees along the bank. 
The sky was clear and bright ; the trees sparkled with 
snow, and the warm waters of the river smoked in the 
frosty air. Such a picture I have never seen — never 
shall see again. As the troops began to debark, the 
band of the Second Iowa came out on the upper deck, 
and the dear ts Star-spangled" echoed along the river. 
The men beat time, and hurrahed as the notes died 
away. 

The place of landing was about three miles below 
Fort Donelson. I may here say that the fort itself is 
about half as large as the Battery, but that it is only a 
corner of a large square of earthworks stretching some 
two miles on each side. To avoid the cannon on the 
works it was necessary for us to make a circuit of 
several miles. The country was woods, high hills, and 
deep ravines. A glen that we entered after leaving the 
river bore a strange resemblance to one on my father's 



24 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

farm. As I looked around I could almost believe it 
was the same, through which, on just such bright 
winter mornings, I had driven the wood-sleigh or wan- 
dered with my gun. But the troops were marching, 
and I had no time to grow homesick. "We passed, in 
the course of our march, a little log house. I went up 
to the door and spoke to the people. They seemed sad 
and dispirited. .There had been firing between the 
pickets a day or two before, and a shower of balls had 
pattered around the house. The woman said she 
wished she were forty miles away, and the man said 
he would not care if he were a hundred. 

A little girl was near the door, and I asked her what 
was her name, to which she replied, after a good deal 
of embarrassment, " Nancy Ann." I let Nancy Ann 
look through my spyglass ; and, as she had never seen 
or even heard of one before, she was very much aston- 
ished. Nancy Ann's mother thereupon became quite 
hospitable, and invited me to come in and rest,, but the 
column was then well nigh over the hill and I had to 
push on. 

At last we reached the position assigned to us, and 
here we found the Fourteenth Iowa, to which my friend 
belonged, and with it I determined to remain until I 
could find my own regiment. 

It was all woods around us. A deep glen ran in 
front, and across this, along the brow of the opposite 
hill, ran those earthworks of the rebels which we wero 
to win. 



DONELSON. 25 

It was less than half a mile across ; and occasionally 
a rifle hall fell near us, but the distance was too great 
for them to be effective. I looked through the trees 
and examined the hill with my glass, but could see 
nothing save the ridge of fresh-turned earth. Along 
the side of the hill were our sharpshooters watching 
the works. I could see them crawling up behind trees 
and stumps, sometimes dragging themselves along the 
ground, sometimes on their hands and knees. Their 
shots were frequent, and sounded as though a sporting 
party were below us. It was hard to believe that they 
were shooting at men. It was wonderful, too, how 
soon the mind accustomed itself to these strange cir- 
cumstances. After the first half hour we took no- 
more notice of the rifle shots than though some boys 
were there at play. Behind those earthworks were 
cannon as well as men. We were completely within 
range, and they could have sent their shot and shell 
amongst us at any time. The night before no fires had 
been allowed, as they would indicate our position to the 
rebels ; but they were now burning, and around one of 
them three or four of us gathered to dine. As we sat 
down upon a log, we heard distant sounds of cannon 
along the river. " There go the gunboats ; the fight 
has begun ; they are shelling the rascals out," said 
everybody. "We had taken for granted all the time, 
and, indeed, up to the last minute, that the gunboats 
would dismantle the fort, and that all we would have 
to do would be to prevent the escape of the rebels. In 

2 



26 ' SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

this we were much mistaken. The cannonade lasted an 
hour, and then stopped. We hoped the fort was taken, 
but no such news came to gladden us. 

In watching the earthworks, in talking and warming 
ourselves at the camp-fires, the afternoon wore away. 
Evening came, and it was determined to risk the fires. 
Again we sat down beside one for supper. It consisted 
of hard pilot-bread, raw pork and coffee. The coffee 
you probably would not recognize in New York. 
Boiled in an open kettle, and about the color of a 
brown stone front, it was nevertheless our greatest 
comfort, and the only warm thing we had. The pork 
was frozen, and the water in the canteens solid ice, so 
that we had to hold them over the fire when we wanted 
a drink. No one had plates or spoons, knives or forks, 
cups or saucers. We cut off the frozen pork with our 
pocket knives, and one tin cup, from which each took a 
drink in turn, served the coffee. It grew darker ; the 
camp-fires burned brightly, and no shot or shell had 
come from the Fort. 

Our sharpshooters and sentinels were between us and 
the rebels ; and it was determined that we might sleep. 
The men stacked their arms, and wrapped themselves 
in their blankets around the fires. This was my first 
night out. Hitherto my quarters had been in houses; 
I had not even passed a night in a tent. A life among 
the comforts of New York is not a good preparative for 
the field. I had looked forward to a tent at this season 
with some little anxiety, but I was now to begin witli- 



DONELSON. 27 

out even that shelter. My water-proof blanket and 
buffalo skin were also on board the steamer, so that I 
had to trust to the better fortune of my friends for 
these. We managed to find four blankets, two of them 
were wet and frozen, and a buffalo skin. The snow 
was scraped away from the windward side of the fire, 
and the two frozen blankets were laid on the ground — 
a log was rolled up for a wind-break, and the buffalo 
spread over the blankets. On this four of us were 
stretched, and very close and straight we had to lie. 
It fared ill with the trappings of military life ; hand- 
some great coats were ignominiously rolled up like 
horse-blankets, and my beautiful sabre (the gift of 
[North Moore street friends), ordinarily stained by no 
speck of rust or drop of rain, was tossed out in the 
snow, with pistols and spy-glasses, used in camp with 
the same gentle treatment. 

For a few minutes I kept awake ; the rebels were 
but fifteen minutes distant, and if they chose to make a 
night attack their shells might burst among us at any 
moment. The snow-flakes began to fall faster and 
faster. I slipt my head under the blanket and fell 
asleep. I can imagine that you will say we were to be 
pitied; but never did I sleep more sweetly. Soon after 
midnight the sound of cannon roused us. ' The snow 
was three inches deep upon our blankets, yet we were 
comfortable, and surprised to find it lying there. 
The ground, however, had thawed beneath us ; and 
when we rose, the snow crept in among our blankets 



28 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

and wet them. Lying down was out of the question ; 
we bent down a couple of saplings and spread blankets 
over them, making a little shed. Under this we crept, 
after piling plenty of wood upon our fire. The soldier's 
invariable comfort — his pipe — was at hand, and thus we 
chatted, smoked and dozed till daylight. 



THE ASSAULT. 29 



III. 



THE ASSAULT. 

The sun of Saturday rose bright and clear, and more 
than one asked if it were an omen for us, or for the 
foe. The morning passed as did the day before ; but 
about noon, word came up that far down on our right 
the rebels had attempted to cut their way out. They 
were driven back, but the fight was bloody, and it was 
said we had lost five hundred men. We were warned 
to be watchful — it was thought they might re-attempt 
it near us. I have said we were in front of a large glen 
or ravine ; on our right were numerous regiments, 
making a chain which stretched to the river. On our 
left was the Second Iowa. This was all that I had seen 
of our position, and consequently is all that I shall 
describe now, inasmuch as I am giving it to you 
precisely as it appeared to me. Soon a mounted 
orderly ro.de by, who told us that a large body of 
rebels were moving up opposite us. Our men were 
called together, and stood near their stacked arms. A 
little while and General Smith and his staff came up — 
they passed by in front of us, but said nothing. At 
the same time the sharpshooters along the glen were 
unusually active, and there were repeated shots by 
them. "We thought they saw the rebels mustering 
behind the breastworks. Everything seemed to indi- 



30 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

cate a sally from the rebels, and that we were to drive 
them back as they had been driven back in the morn- 
ing. The men took their arms, officers loosened their 
pistol holsters. I hooked up my cavalry sabre, unbut- 
toned my great coat so that I could quickly throw it off, 
and took my place beside the lieutenant-colonel with 
whom I was to act. Then there came a painful, un- 
pleasant pause ; we heard nothing — saw nothing — yet 
knew that something was coming; what that some- 
thing was no one could tell. A messenger came from 
the general — we were to move to the left and support 
the Second Iowa. We supposed the rebels were crossing 
a little higher up, and that the gap between us and the 
Second was to be closed. The colonel gave the order 
"left face," "forward march," and the regiment passed 
along through the thick trees in a column of two abreast. 
But the Second were not where they had been in the 
morning ; we marched on, but did not come to them. 
In a few moments we passed their camp fires — a few 
more, and we emerged on an open field. 

At a glance, the real object of the movement was 
apparent. It came upon us in an instant, like the 
lifting of a curtain. The Fourteenth were hurrying 
down through the field. The Second, in a long line, 
were struggling up the opposite hill, where two glens 
met and formed a ridge. It was high and steep, slippery 
with mud and melted snow. At the top, the breast- 
works of the rebels flashed and smoked, whilst to the 
right and left, up either glen, cannon were thundering. 



THE ASSAULT. 31 

The attempt seemed desperate. Down through the 
field we went, and began to climb the hill. At the 
very foot I found we were in the line of fire. Rifle 
balls hissed over us, and bleeding men lay upon the 
ground, or were dragging themselves down the hill. 
From the foot to the breastworks the Second Iowa left a 
long line of dead and wounded upon the ground. The 
sight of these was the most appalling part of the 
scene, and, for a moment, completely diverted my 
attention from the firing. A third of the way up we 
came under the fire of the batteries. The shot, and 
more especially the shell, came with the rushing, 
clashing of a locomotive on a railroad. You heard the 
boom of the cannon up the ravine — then the sound of 
the shell — and then felt it rusliing at you. At the top 
of the hill the firearms sounded like bundles of immense 
powder crackers. They would go r-r-r-r-rap ; then 
came the scattered shots, rap, rap — rap-rap, rap ; then 
some more fired together, rrrrrrap. This resemblance 
was so striking that it impressed me at 'the moment. 

The bursting of the shells produced much less effect 
• — apparent effect, I mean — than I anticipated. Their 
explosion, too, was much like a large powder cracker 
thrown in the air. There was a loud bang — fragments 
flew about, and all was over. It was so quickly done, 
that you had no time to anticipate or think — you were 
killed or you were safe, and it was over. But the most 
dispiriting thing was that we saw no enemy. The 
batteries were out of sight, and at the breastworks 



6Z SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

nothing could be seen but fire and smoke. It seemed 
as though we were attacking some invisible power, and 
that it was a simple question of time whether we 
could climb that slippery steep before we were all shot 
or not. But suddenly the firing at the summit ceased. 
The Second Iowa had charged the works, and driven 
out the regiments which held them. Then came the 
lire of the Second upon our flying foes, and then loud 
shouts along the line, " Hurrah, hurrah, the Second are 
in — hurry up, boys, and support them — close up — ■ 
forward — forward." We reached the top and scrambled 
over the breastwork. I saw a second hill rising 
gradually before us, and on the top of it a second 
breastwork — between us and it about four hundred 
yards of broken ground. A second fire opened upon 
us from these inner works. "We were ordered back,, 
and, recrossing those we had taken, lay down upon the 
outer side of the embankment. 

The breastwork that had sheltered the enemy now 
sheltered us. It was about six feet high on our side y 
and the men laid close against it. Occasionally a hat 
was pushed up above it, and then a rifle ball would 
come whistling over us from the second intrenchment. 
The batteries also continued to fire, but the shot passed 
lower down the hill, and did little execution. Having 
no specific duty to discharge, I turned, as soon as our 
troops reached the breastworks, and gave my aid to* 
the wounded. 

A singular fact for which I could not account was* 



THE ASSAULT. 33 

that those near the foot of the hill were struck in the 
legs ; higher up, the shots had gone through the body, 
and near the breastworks, through the head. Indeed, 
at the top of the hill I noticed no wounded ; all who 
lay upon the ground there were dead. A little house 
in the field was used as a hospital. I tore my handker- 
chief into strips, and tied them round the wounds 
which were bleeding badly, and made the men hold 
snow upon them. I then took a poor fellow in my 
arms to carry to the little house. "Throw down your 
gun," I said, " you are too weak to carry it." " Xo, 
no," he replied, " I will hold on to it as long as I am 
alive." The house happened to be in the exact line of 
one of the batteries, and as we approached it, the shot 
flew over our path. Fortunately, the house was below 
the range, but one came so low as to knock off a 
shingle from the gable end. For a few minutes we 
thought they were firing on the wounded. "We had no 
red flag, to display ; but I found a man with a red 
handkerchief, and tied it to a stick, and sent him on 
the roof with it. "Within the house there were but 
three surgeons at this time. One of them asked me to 
take his horse and ride for the instruments, ambulances, 
and assistants ; for no preparations had been made. It 
was then I passed Major Chipman carried by his 
soldiers. 

When I returned, the ambulances were busy at their 
work; numerous couples of soldiers were supporting 
off wounded friends, and occasionally came four, car- 

2* 



34 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

ryrng one in a blanket. The wounded men generally 
showed the greatest heroism. They hardly ever alluded 
to themselves, but shouted to the artillery that we met 
to hurry forward, and told stragglers that we had 
carried the day. One poor boy, carried in the arms of 
two soldiers, had his foot knocked off by a shell ; it 
dangled horribly from his limb by a piece of skin, and 
the bleeding stump was uncovered. I stopped to tell 
the men to tie his stocking round the limb, and to 
put snow upon the wound. " Never mind the foot, 
captain," said he, " we drove the rebels out, and have 
got their trench, that's the most I care about." Yet I 
confess the sights and sounds were not as distressing as 
I anticipated. The small round bullet holes, though 
they might be mortal, looked no larger than a surgeon's 
lancet might have made. Only once did I hear dis- 
tressing groans. A poor wretch in an ambulance 
shrieked whenever the wheels struck a stump. There 
was no help for it. The road was through the wood, 
the driver could only avoid the trees, and drive on 
regardless of his agony. 

You will perhaps ask how I felt in the fight. There 
was nothing upon which I had had so much curiosity 
as to what my feelings would be. Much to my surprise 
I found myself unpleasantly cool. I did not get 
excited, and felt a great want of something to do. I 
thought if I only had something — my own company to 
lead on, or somebody to order, I should have much less 
to think about. There seemed such a certainty of 



THE ASSAULT. 35 

being hit that I felt certain I should be, and after a few 
minutes had a Yague sort of wish that it would come if 
it were coming, and be over with. The alarming effect 
of the bullets and shells was less than I supposed .it 
would be, and my strongest sensation of danger was 
produced by the sight of the dead and wounded. The 
thing I was most afraid of was a panic among our men, 
and when the Seventh Illinois was ordered to fall back 
down the hill, I so much feared that the men might 
deem it a retreat that I entirely forgot the firing, and 
walked clown in front of them talking to their major, 
so that any frightened man in the ranks might be 
reassured by our " matter of course " air. Take it 
altogether, I think I felt and acted pretty much as I do 
in any unusual and exciting affair. I know I found 
myself looking for an illustration of the effect of the 
shells, and wondering if there was no greater and 
grander illustration of the musketry than a bunch of 
powder crackers. I remember that I did little things 
from habit, as usual ; when I threw off my overcoat, 
for example, I took a pipe which a friend had given 
me from the pocket, lest it should be lost ; and I 
remember that I once corrected my grammar when I 
inadvertently adopted the western style of telling the 
men to lay down, and as I did so, I thought that one 
or two people at North Moore street would have been 
very apt to laugh if they had heard it. Yet for all 
this, I was by no means unconscious of danger. Some 
officers seemed utterly indifferent to it. Thus, in the 



36 SKETCHES OF THE WAS, 

fight of Thursday, Colonel Shaw, of the Fourteenth f 
alter ordering his men to lie down, not only remained 
on horseback, but crossed his legs over the pommel of 
the saddle, sitting sidewise to be more comfortable. 
The sharpshooters of the enemy concentrated their fire 
on him, he being the only person visible. As the 
bullets thickened about him, the colonel said indig- 
nantly, " those rascals are firing at me, I shall have to 
move,' 3 and he threw his leg back, and walked his 
horse down to the other end of the line. 

Our men laid in the trench all night, exposed to the 
western wind, which blew keenly round the summit of 
the hill — a large force of the enemy within a few yards, 
able to rush upon them at any moment, y 

I had gone back just after dark, with the adjutant, 
who had been hurt by the explosion of a shell, and my 
return with him saved me this. When morning came, 
we went back. As we reached the foot of the hill, we 
were told that a white flag had been displayed, and an 
officer had gone into the fort, but that the time was 
nearly up, and the attack was now to be renewed. 
We hurried on, expecting in a few moments to be in a 
second assault. We had nearly reached the trenches, 
when the men sprang from the ditch to the top of the 
breastwork, waving the colors and giving wild hurrahs. 
The fort had surrendered. 

There was a load lifted off my mind, and I stopped 
to look around. The first glance fell on the blue coats 
scattered through the felled trees and stumps. The 



THE ASSAULT. 37 

march of our troops up the hill had been somewhat 
in the form of a broom. Until near the top they had 
been in column, leaving a long, narrow line like the 
handle, and, as they rushed at the breastwork, they had 
spread out like the broom. This ground was plainly 
marked by the dead. JSTow that my attention was 
given, I was surprised to find how many were strewn 
upon the narrow strip. Here was one close to me; 
about the width of a class-room beyond was another ; a 
little further on two had fallen, side by side. In a little 
triangle I counted eighteen bodies, and many I knew 
had been carried off during the night. Still the scene 
was not so painful as the dead-room of the hospital at 
St. Louis. The attitudes were peaceful. The arms were 
in all but one case thrown naturally over the breast, as 
in sleep ; and no face gave any indication of a painful 
death. I passed on and entered the breastwork. It was 
about the height of a man. On top was a large log, 
and between the log and the earthwork a narrow slit. 
Through this they had fired on us. The log had hidden 
their heads, so that, while w T e were in plain view, they 
were to us an invisible foe. Immediately within were 
six more bodies of the Second Iowa, and one in simple 
homespun. He was the only one of the enemy upon 
the ground. The soldiers, gathering around him, looked 
as I did myself, with some curiosity upon one who 
had thus met the punishment of his treason. He had 
been shot through the back of the head while running, 
and his face expressed only wonderment and fright. It 



38 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

showed him a country-bred youth, illiterate, unculti- 
vated — a contrast to the still intelligent faces that lay 
around him. 

Meanwhile our troops were forming along the hill to 
take possession of the fort. All voices declared that 
the Second Iowa should lead. As it moved past the 
other regiments to the head of the column, the men 
cheered them, and the officers uncovered ; but they 
seemed sad and wearied. I looked along their line, 
and found of the officers I knew hardly one was there. 

It was a beautiful sight to see regiment,, after regi- 
ment mount the second breastwork, and watch them 
successively halt and cheer, and wave their colors as 
they crossed. I pushed on, scrambled over it, and 
found myself in the midst of fi.Ye hundred of the pri- 
soners. They were strange figures, in white blanket or 
carpet coats, having the same unintelligent faces as the 
one who had been killed outside. I stared at them, and 
they at me. They looked crestfallen and confused, but 
showed little feeling; and during the day I saw but 
few faces of common soldiers that awakened any pity. 
They, poor fellows, sat sadly looking at the scene. To 
one of them I spoke. He said he had clone nothing to 
bring on the war ; he had been for the Union, and had 
only enlisted a month before to avoid being impressed. 
His family lived, or had lived (he did not know where 
they were now), within a mile, and he would give a 
great, great deal to see them for only a minute. " Will 
your officers let me write to tell them I am alive 8" 



THE ASSAULT. 39 

"To be sure they will." " And will we be furnished 
witli food?" "Yes, the same as our own soldiers." 
"Most of our men expected, if we surrendered un- 
conditionally, that you would kill us." " You see we 
have not done so." " ISTo, they have treated us very 
kindly : we have been deceived." Such was the tenor 
of our conversation. I may here say that our men 
behaved admirably; and I did not hear of a single 
indignity being offered to any of our prisoners. A few 
sentinels were placed around a regiment of prisoners, 
and, so far as appearances went, half of them might 
have escaped. But the woods around the fort contained 
regiments of our troops, and they knew the attempt 
would be hopeless. We were assigned the quarters of 
the Fiftieth Tennessee, and I slept in what had been 
the colonel's. It was a nice little house of oak blocks, 
laid up so that the wood and bark alternated, giving a 
very pretty tesselated appearance. They had all sorts 
of comforts, which we had never even hoped for at 
Camp Benton ; and while we supposed they had been 
roughing it, found we had been roughing it ourselves. 

We invited the colonel and some of his officers to 
spend the night with us. I confess they behaved with 
dignity. They made no complaints, and submitted 
with quiet resignation to their changed circumstances ; 
but they were Tennessians, and though they made no 
professions in words, convinced us that they had been 
Union men 'at heart and wished the Union back again. 
One of us remarked, that i£those who had been released 



40 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

heretofore had not abused it, and violated their pledges 
and oaths, the prisoners at Fort Donelson would pro- 
bably be released in the same way. The lieutenant- 
colonel said he wished it could be so ; he was confident 
none of his men would be thus guilty. " But," he 
added, " I don't blame the Government for sending us 
North ; I acknowledge that I am a rebel taken in arms, 
and it is fully justified in treating me accordingly." 

It was a novelty indeed, thus spending the evening 
with our late opponents. We made no allusions that 
could hurt their feelings, but talked over the events of 
the siege until a late hour. They told us the surrender 
was a thunder-clap to all. The men, and most of the 
officers, had not seen how completely they were sur- 
rounded, and had been made to believe that they were 
successful. The evening before they were told this, 
and in the morning it was announced that their gene- 
rals had run away, and they were prisoners of war. 

I now began to look about me and feel a little of the 
confusion that follows a battle. My trunk had been 
left on the steamer, and the steamer had moved ; my 
blankets had been left in a hospital tent, and the 
hospital tent had disappeared ; my regiment was 
fourteen miles off, at Fort Henry ; the biscuit and 
coffee on which we had lived were gone, and provisions 
had not followed us into the fort. I procured a cap- 
tured horse, and the next morning started at daylight 
for Fort Henry. As I passed a regiment in the woods, 
the commissary was dealing out a biscuit and a handful 



THE ASSAULT. 41 

of sugar to each man for breakfast. He good naturedly 
said lie would give me my share. After a long ride, 
I found my men camped in some woods, all well and 
bitterly disappointed at not having been at Fort 
Donelson. 



4:2 SKETCriES OF THE WAR. 

IV. 

FORAGING 
Camp Lowe, Tennessee, March IQth, 1S62. 

In this military life. I find there is much quiet time, 
when the hours pass slowly and the men yawn and 
wish for something to do. "With every change of 
camp, reading matter is lost or left behind ; orders, too, 
have been given that the quantity of baggage be 
reduced ; and here, in Tennessee, newspapers and letters 
hardly ever come. It is pleasant, then, to sit as I am 
now, under a tree in the warm sun, and talk with 
pencil and paper to your distant friends. 

My previous letters have had so much in them 
gloomy or painful, that this time I will choose a more 
pleasant subject, and give you an account of my First 
Foraging. 

Gipsy is the prettiest of horses. I should fail to 
describe my excursion, if I failed to describe Gipsy. 
Gipsy is one of those happy beings that everybody 
likes. No one ever quarrels with her. She has never 
been struck with a whip or touched by the spur, and 
knows not what either means. The soldiers all know 
Gipsy, and the Germans, who are always sociably 
inclined, generally say as they pass her, " Good morn- 
ing, Shipsy;" at which Shipsy looks as pleased as 
anybody could. Gipsy is a small specimen of the 



FORAGING. 43 

Black Hawk race, jet black in color, and almost as 
delicate and agile in form as a greyhound, with the 
mischievous, restless eyes of a bright terrier. 

Gipsy has several feminine traits of character — a 
good deal of vanity with a little affectation, and is 
withal something of a flirt. Put on a common soldier's 
bridle, and she goes very quietly ; but change it for a 
handsome brass mounted one, and Gipsy tosses her 
head as though the bridle were a new bonnet. If you 
say, " Come here, Gij)sy," Gipsy walks off the other 
way ; if you call her very loudly, Gipsy pricks up her 
ears, and seems completely absorbed in. some object 
half a mile off; but walk away, and Gipsy puts up a 
piteous whinny, for you to come back and make it up. 
When I am riding alone, Gipsy generally does pretty 
much as she pleases — now trotting, now cantering, now 
dashing up hill on a gallop, her ears always pricked 
up, and her bright eyes examining every object on the 
road. Should we come suddenly out of the woods 
upon a fine prospect, Gipsy stops and looks it over, 
with as much interest as though she were a landscape 
painter. If we come to a narrow stream, Gipsy (who 
greatly dislikes to wet her feet) stops again, looks 
deliberately up and down, selects the narrowest place, 
and then, without asking anybody's leave, proceeds 
there and bounds over. When thus riding without a 
companion, I find it very interesting to watch' the 
beautiful intelligence of my little mare. 

On her arrival at Fort Henry, Gipsy was greatly dis- 



44 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

gusted with Tennessee. For the clear, prairie fields of 
Missouri, she found nothing but thick woods, steep hills 
and muddy roads — no chance for her to run races or 
frolic here. For a week, the rain has fallen steadily on 
Gipsy ; her water-proof blanket has kept her dry ; but 
she is knee deep in mud, and has not lain down for 
three nights. JNo wonder she puts her ears back, and 
tries to look sulky. But an order has come for me to 
go with half the squadron and search for forage. The 
saddle and bridle are brought from the tent, and Gipsy 
brightens up at the sight. The men are soon ready ; the 
clouds break away ; the sun comes out ; Gipsy takes her 
place at the head of the column, and throws her heels 
joyously in the air, champing the bit and tossing the 
white foam over her jetty coat. 

The road is but a bridle-path through woods. The 
path is narrow, and the men must ride " by file." Per- 
haps you do not know that " by file," means one behind 
the other ; " by twos," two side by side ; and " by 
fours," four side by side. The next formation is "by 
platoon," or a quarter of a company; and the next 
" by squadron," or an entire company. We emerge 
on a small farm, waste and desolate. Straggling sol- 
diers have broken into the house, and scattered about 
what few effects the rebel owner left. It is the first 
deserted house I have seen, and the sight is rather sad. 
Our road leads us again into the woods, and then brings 
us into the valley of the Tennessee, and follows the 
windings of the river. We pass several farms, small 



FORAGING. 45 

and poorly cultivated, with rude timber houses, by 
which I mean houses of squared logs. The chimneys are 
always built entirely on the outside, and are generally 
of sticks and**hiud, instead of bricks and mortal* Occa- 
sionally we halt to ask questions. The people are not 
surly, but they do not smile. This is the worst part of 
Tennessee, and it is plain they have sons and brothers 
among the prisoners of Fort Donelson. But at one 
house the man comes eagerly forward and his face 
lights ; his wife, too, comes out, and says she almost 
hopes to see some face she knows. They have lived 
long Jiere, but the man is from Eastern Tennessee, and 
the woman from Northern Alabama — those two rem- 
nants of the South that hung to the Union till the last. 
He tells us that the country produces little besides pigs 
and corn. " It is pork and corn dodger," he says, " at 
breakfast, dinner and tea all the year round." I ask 
where they grind the corn, and he mentions a large 
mill now despoiled by its owner, who took himself oft* 
to Memphis, and a little mill some three miles distant, 
owned by the " Widow Williams." It is an object to 
have some corn meal, so I determine to visit the 
Widow Williams' mill. The road to the mill turns 
abruptly from the river, and goes up a brook. We pass 
a few houses, scattered at intervals in the woods. The 
road is so much better than the other, that the men ride 
" by twos ;" and so it should be, for it is the. road from 
Dover to Paris. We pass oue or two houses, whose 
owners .are suspiciously young widows ; in other words, 



46 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

we suspect that their deceased husbands are fighting 
with the rebels. At last we come to the Widow "Wil- 
liams, whom we do not suspect ; for she is a grey-haired 
matron, •who has seen sorrow, and she sits on the rude 
piazza with a family around her. The girls look ner- 
vously at us, for we are the first troop of soldiers they 
have had halt. The widow rises as I ride up, and says, 
with a good deal of dignity, " Please to alight, gentle- 
men;" and I take her at her word, and order, "dis- 
mount." I ask her if she can grind us some meal, and 
she rises in our good opinion by saying, " Not to-day, 
this is Sunday." It is indeed ; but very little like one 
to us ; we had almost forgotten the day. I then buy a 
bushel of meal for my own men, and go down with the 
widow's eldest son, who is a lad of fifteen, to get the 
meal and view the mill — a tiny little affair, and two of 
the men, who are millers, laugh when they see it. On 
coming back to the house, I find a group of the men 
have made themselves quite agreeable. They have 
come from the city, and doubtless are more refined and 
polished than any men these country girls have seen 
before. The youngest is some ten years old, named 
Martha, and I ask her if she is not afraid of us Northern 
mercenaries. Martha says no ! and laughs at the idea ; 
but when I ask her if we have not been called all sorts 
of names, and if she has not been told that we would 
burn her mother's house down, and cut her head off, 
Martha blushes, and the older sisters look confused. It 
is evident that we have had a very bad name there, and 



FORAGING. , 47 

that they are now ashamed to own it. But we have a 
long circuit to make ; the meal is stowed away in the 
haversacks; Widow "Williams invites us to call again, 
and assures us we will be welcome ; I make believe to 
arrest Martha, and carry her off as prisoner ; at which 
she is a little frightened and the rest a good deal 
amused ; and then " mount," " fall in," " march," and 
off we go. 

Gipsy is the smallest horse in the regiment, but to-day 
her feelings have been immense. She has borne herself 
as much like Gen. Washington's great charger as pos- 
sible, and has champed the bit more fiercely and pranced 
more proudly than the best of them. Her front is white 
with foam, and every look shows that she deems the 
head of the column her proper place. Whenever any 
horse has come within a respectful distance, Gipsy's 
heels have flown higher than his head, admonishing 
him, that whatever happens, she must be first. But the 
road, which has followed the bank, now crosses the 
brook. There is no friendly bridge to lift us over — the 
road leads down the bank, straight into the water. 
That water is wider than Sixth Avenue, and the recent 
rain has made it a roaring torrent — no one knows how 
deep, and it splashes and dashes fearfully. Gipsy looks 
up — looks down ; no narrow place appears for her to 
bound over. Half of her airs and graces drop off* at the 
sight. She hesitates a moment — the tramp of the horses 
behind tell her that she must decide quickly. She 
screws her courage up, and marches heroically down 



48 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

the bank. The first plunge, and the water dashes lip on 
her breast — it is a foot higher on one side than the 
other, so swift is the current. It is cold and very wet — 
it roars louder than ever, and who can tell how deep it 
is ahead. Poor Gipsy ! the last of the airs and graces 
are gone ; so is her resolution. She wheels ingloriously 
round, and throws herself submissively behind the. lead- 
ing sergeant's horse. Him she follows meekly through 
the stream ; on the other side, she continues so for a few 
yards; then she steals a glance ahead. There is no 
more water with its horrid noise in sight. She gives a 
slight champ on the bit, and moves up beside the 
sergeant's horse. A good, long look assures her of a 
dry road ahead. She bounds past, the airs and graces 
fly back as swiftly as they flew away; and in five 
minutes she is as vain a little Gipsy as ever she 
was before. 

But it is one o'clock — horses and men are hungry, 
and just beyond us is a house. We see chickens, cows, 
sheep and pigs, but no smoke rises from the chimney. 
We halt ; the sergeant enters the open door ; comes 
back and reports it just what we want — a deserted 
house. In a few minutes the horses are unsaddled and 
tied to the fence, mnnching the corn we find in two 
large cribs. The poor cows welcome us, for they have 
not been fed since their owner ran away, and are almost 
starved. My order to the men is to take nothing but 
food, and to injure nothing needlessly. The sheep are 
caught, pronounced too thin, and let loose. But the 



FORAGING. 49 

chickens and pigs — after them there is a chase. There 
are shouts of excitement, intermingled with roars of 
laughter, as some brave pig charges between his pur- 
suer's feet, and trips him up, and with the squeals and 
cacklings of the victims as they are caught. Within 
the house, we find a few things left, which the poor 
creatures probably overlooked as they hurried away. 
There is a jar of molasses on the shelf; a bag of dried 
peaches in the closet ; a haunch of smoked venison, and 
a barrel of black walnuts in the garret. These last are 
a source of great entertainment for the men, who not 
only enjoy the most unusual luxury, but exult in the 
thought of a run-away rebel gathering nuts for them, 
and crack many jokes as they crack the shells. But the 
poor children, who picked them for their winter treat, 
now wandering homeless, and countryless, who can 
guess where ! We have been so bred to respect private 
rights, that as I sit watching the men gather up the 
pigs and poultry, and fill their sacks with corn, I have 
a slight fear that the former owner may appear and 
charge us with stealing the property which his treason 
has forfeited to the Government. But no owner appears. 
The horses have done their corn and the men their 
biscuit ; the molasses has been emptied into canteens, 
and a large bundle of corn leaves tied to every saddle— 
we must start. 

Down the Dover road we go a mile or two, then 
turn up another bridle path, which crosses and recrosses 
a little rill some thirty times. Two men ride before 

3 



50 SKETCHES OF THE WAI2. 

us, partly to accustom themselves to the duties of 
advance guard, partly to point out the intricate road. 
As we come round a turn, there are a farmer and his 
daughter (a young girl) on horseback before us. They 
have met the advance guard, and have stopped, and 
are looking back at them with fearful interest, com- 
pletely absorbed in the sight. They do not even hear 
our approach, and I'get near enough to hear the girl 
asking her father about these two Federal soldiers. 
The squadron is marching " by twos," and there is not 
room enough to pass. Ordinarily, private persons 
would have to get out of the way ; but I think this a 
beautiful opportunity to be very polite, so I command 
" by file." Man and girl turn their heads as though a 
gun had gone off close to their ears. Such a look of 
fear and surprise I have never seen as in the poor girl's 
^ace. They are so hemmed in that they have to stand 
still until the whole column passes one by one, and the 
last we see of them they continue to stand there, look- 
ing back at us. It must seem like a vision, and they 
will have a tremendous tale to tell when they reach 
home. This road is so secluded that none of our sol- 
diers have found it, and we cause a great stir in the 
few houses we pass. My men march silently, more 
like regulars than volunteers, and the inhabitants con- 
fess that they find in us an unexpected contrast to the 
noisy, yelling rascals, who a few weeks before were 
plundering them, for the good of the Southern Con- 
federacy. 



FORAGING. 51 

The sun has gone down, and the moon Las risen, and 
we are on the main road from Fort Donelson, and will 
reach our camp soon, and have a good supper, and rest 
sweetly in our tents after onr day's ride. We think 
over what we will have for supper, and debate whether 
the pigs, or chickens, or corn-meal can be added to the 
rations we shall find in camp. We are reckoning like 
inexperienced soldiers. The uncertainty of legal, is 
nothing to the uncertainty of military life. In the law 
you can at least calculate on your breakfast, and a part 
of your bed ; but in camp you can calculate on nothing. 
"We approach Fort Henry, and plunge into the mud 
that environs our camp. We struggle through till we 
come to the trees where the horses should be tied, and 
to the little knoll where the tents should be pitched. 
We look around in vague astonishment — horses, and 
men, and tents have vanished; all is darkness and 
silence ; our camp has gone. To come home and find 
your home absconded, to leave your house in the 
morning and find it has walked away at the evening, is 
something new. Searching in the darkness for the new 
camp is folly ; there is nothing to be done but wait till 
to-morrow. It is very easy to say wait, but how are 
we to wait f If we had some beds to wait in, and 
some supper to wait for, it would be tolerable ; but we 
were only going for a little while, so we left our 
blankets, and it was such a fine day that we did not 
take our overcoats. Who would have dreamt of the 
colonel playing us such a trick ? At Fort Donelson I 



52 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

learned the first lesson — " do not trust to your trunk ;" 
now I have to learn the second — " do not trust to your 
camp." Hereafter I will not leave for half an hour 
without having my blanket rolled behind, and my over- 
coat strapped before. If I only had them now ! But 
lamenting will do no good ; something must be done. 
" Who has got any matches ?" " Smith and Jones." 
" Then Smith and Jones light a fire." The fire soon 
blazes up and discloses a small pile, which the wagons 
have overlooked. There are a few blankets and over- 
coats, three plates, a couple of mess-pans, and one 
camp-kettle. A new discovery is made — some coffee and 
a sack of meat. " What kind P " Pork." " Hurrah! 
we're all right now." "No, salt beef." "Pshaw! 
What do they send salt beef to the army for ? If it 
had only been pork, we could have toasted it on sticks, 
and fried it on plates, and broiled it on the coals, and 
have greased the pans with it ; but this beef, we can do 
nothing with." But we have the bushel of meal I 
fortunately bought, and the chickens. Pick the chick- 
ens, and cut them up ; mix some meal and water, and 
make com dodgers, as the Tennessians do. There are 
the plates to bake it on, and we can try baking it in the 
ashes. But the coffee — everybody looks forward to it 
— no matter if it is poor and weak. Without milk, 
without sugar, and full of grounds, it is always the 
tired soldier's great restorative, his particular comfort. 
Our camp-kettle is set apart for it. The chickens must 
be stewed in pans and roasted on sticks. The camp- 



FORAGING. 53 

kettle is sacred for the coffee. " Captain," says some- 
body, " this coffee is not ground, and we have no mill. 
What shall we do?" "What indeed shall we do?" 
We must have coffee, and some one hits on the remedy ; 
we take the tough, linen bag of a haversack, put the 
coffee in it, and pound it on a log. Somewhat to our 
surprise, we find that it is soon well ground, and in the 
course of half an hour we have as good coffee as usual. 
Chicken and corn dodgers come along more slowly, but 
after awhile we sit around the fire to eat them; and 
everybody declares that he has had enough, and that it 
is very good. From supper to bed. The corn forage 
that we brought for the horses must be used for blan- 
kets. Spread on the ground, it makes a comfortable 
mattress. I have said that we had left our blankets ; 
but, nevertheless, every man has one. Some years ago, 
a young cavalry captain, named McClellan, who (in my 
opinion) does all things quietly but well, observed that 
the padding of a saddle frequently got out of order, 
causing the poor horse a sore back, and requiring a 
saddler to put it in order again. He also remarked 
that the pad was of no other use than to play the part 
of cushion between the saddle and the horse's back. 
He thereupon introduced into the army what is now 
known as the McClellan saddle. It is made of wood, 
hollowed out so that on the one side it makes a com- 
fortable seat for the man, and on the other conforms to 
the shape of the horse. A narrow slit is cut out over 
the backbone, which not only saves the horse's spine, 



54: SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

but makes it much more cool and comfortable for him. 
And, finally, the padding consists of a horse blanket 
folded up. Thus, to the wise, judicious foresight of 
General McClellan, each of us is indebted for a blanket. 

Lying on my cornleaf couch, and looking up at the 
clear sky, within the glow of our fire, is as pleasant a 
situation after a long ride as one could desire. I think 
it delightful, and while thinking so, drop asleep. But 
there is one more lesson in store for us before daylight. 
After some hours, I am awoke by a tremendous noise. 
There are no stars now. The sky is black as ink — the 
darkness is such that we can see nothing but the half- 
burnt brands of the fires. The wind howls through 
the trees like a pack of wolves, and scatters our fires so 
that the coals fly over our heads, and fall on our 
blankets and beds. The rain is not come yet, but is 
coming — we shall be drenched, and then have to sit up 
in the darkness and shiver till daylight. It is a dismal 
prospect. Pitter, patter on the leaves. Now we are 
in for it : the drops thicken ; in a minute we shall be 
as wet as water. But Nature only means to give us a 
fright. The rain does not increase — the drops stop — 
the wind howls less loudly. Soon, through a rent in 
the clouds is seen a star, and then another. The rent 
grows larger, and every one takes a long breath, and 
says, "The storm has passed round." We lie down 
again, and wake up to find it a bright, frosty morning. 

After an hour's ride, we have found the new camp. 
It is on a beautiful wooded slope, overlooking the river 



FORAGING. 55 

and the fort, and on either side a clear, little rill trickles 
through the trees. Our tents are pitched on one, and 
the "horses picketed on the other. None of us have 
ever seen so beautiful a camp before ; and, as we dis- 
mount, the bugles blow the breakfast call. 



56 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 



A FLAG OF TRUCE. 

Camp Lowe, Tennessee, April 6, 1862. 

Our regiment has left its pleasant camp near Fort 
Henry, and has crossed the Tennessee and encamped in 
a small field about three miles above the fort. I 
happened to be in command when we halted here, and 
named the camp after our colonel. 

It is a rainy day in camp — since morning it has been 
rain, rain, rain. The camp seems deserted ; save here 
and there you see a man, with blanket drawn close- 
over head and shoulders, plod heavily and slowly- 
through the mud. The horses stand with heads down,, 
and drooping ears, stock still — nothing moves but the 
rain, and that straight down. There is no light, 
umbrella, nor rattling omnibus in camp; nor dry- 
stockings, nor warm fire to find, at home. The tents 
are tired of shedding rain, and it oozes through ; there 
were no spades to trench them, and it runs under. 
There is water above, and mud beneath, and wet 
everywhere. No fun in soldiering now. 

An officer says, "Captain, you will report immedi- 
ately for orders." So I wrap my blanket round me, 
and toil over to the colonel's tent. The colonel is a 
young man, but an old soldier, and has the only fire in 
camp. It is close to the tent door — no danger on such 



A FLAG OF TRUCE. 57 

a day of the canvas catching fire — the smoke occa- 
sionally blows in, but so does the heat, and the colonel 
says he will keep it up all night. He pitched his tent, 
too, the moment he arrived, not waiting for the clouds, 
and did it well. His alone is comfortable — so much 
for being a " regular," and learning your lessons from 
experience. 

The colonel hands me the order, which runs thus — 
"To-morrow, Captain N. will proceed with a flag of 
truce to Paris, and remove our wounded, left there at 
the recent engagement. Should they be held as pri- 
soners of war, he is authorized to make an exchange, 
and w r ill take with him the surgeon and an ambulance, 
and four of his own men." 

The colonel then advises me to see the officer who 
commanded the late expedition to Paris, and learn 
from him the names of the wounded, and the roads. 1 
go to his tent and find that he is sick, and has secured a 
little hospital stove, which puffs and blows like a loco- 
motive baby. There is also an old gentleman there, 
whose son was taken prisoner by us at Paris. He has 
brone-ht in the bodv of an officer who died of his 
wounds, and he hopes to procure the release 'of his son, 
now on his w T ay to St. Louis. Mr. Clokes lives on the 
Paris road, and it is arranged that he ride back with 
the surgeon in our ambulance. 

I plod back to our tent ; the water has run in, and it 
is ankle-deep in mud. Though the sun is hardly down, 
my two lieutenants have gone to bed, for there is no 

2* 



58 SKETCHES OF THE "WAE. 

place to sit up, and nothing to see, or hear, or do. I 
may as well turn in, too; but there rises a serious ques- 
tion. My boots are mud from top to bottom, and 
wringing wet. If I pull them off, I may not be able to 
pull them on, and a man cannot carry a flag of truce 
without boots. If I leave them on, I shall have to 
go to bed without my feet, for it will never do to put 
that mass of mud into your blankets, and they feel like 
lumps of ice now. "What shall I do ? I will pull them 
off, and will get up before reveille (an hour, if neces- 
sary) and pull them on again. So I pull off the boots, 
and lie down in my wet clothes, and wrap myself in 
my wet blanket, and remember that I have not had 
anything since a scant noonday dinner. 

You get hungry in camp, and must be fed. Our 
camp chest is packed up under a tree, but on the 
other side of the tent is a pan with some stewed goose 
and corn bread. I cannot step into the mud unless I 
struggle into those boots again ; but near me is an axe. 
I slip down to the end of the cot, and, with" the axe, 
fish the pan of goose out of the little lake it stands in. 
The unhappy bird swims in a gravy of rainwater, and 
the corn bread is soaking wet ; plates and forks are in 
the camp chest ; but I have my pocket-knife, and with 
it eat a saltless supper. 

My little German orderly comes in after awhile, and, 
giving a soldier's salute with great ceremony notwith- 
standing the rain, says : 

" Captain, fot orders." 



A FLAG OF TRUCE. 59 

" Bischoff, we must have some coffee. Tell Anderson 
(our contraband) to bring it." 

"But, captain," says Bischoff, "the tent, he blow- 
down — the cook, he go away to a barn — the tire, he go 
out — the wood, he is wet and will no burn." 

" But, Bischoff, we must have some coffee, we shall 
die if we don't. There is the coffeepot, with a package 
of ground coffee inside — get some water, and go up to 
Captain K.'s tent, and ask him to let you make it on 
the stove." 

" Yes, captain," and Bischoff departs. 

By and by he comes back with the coffee ; we sit up 
and drink it scalding hot, and, quite revived, say, "now 
for a smoke." My pipe and tobacco bag are always in 
my pocket — those North Moore street bags are much 
more useful than their makers ever dreamt they would 
be — a dry match is at last induced to go, the wet 
blankets grow warmer, and we express the opinion that 
" this is really comfortable." 

"Well, captain, any more order?" says Bischoff, who 
is also revived by his share of the coffee. 

" Yes, Bischoff, tell Sergeant Starleigh to be ready, with 
two men, to go with me in the morning — you will be the 
fourth ; and mind and have the horses ready by seven." 

" Yes, captain." 

Bischoff goes out, draws the tent opening closely 
together, holds his hand over his pipe to keep it dry ; 
and then we hear his steps slowly receding — squsk — 
sqush — sqush through the mud. 



60 SKETCHES OF THE WiB, 

My dreams are entirely of boots, and they wake me 
early. Then commences a struggle for (outside) exist- 
ence. Twice I take out my knife and meditate the last 
resort, and twice my hand is stayed by the thought that 
there may be no shoemaker in all Tennessee. It grows 
later and lighter, and I shall miss the morning roll-call 
for the first time since I have been in service. But the 
colonel saves me from breaking my rule. He thinks it 
too bad to make the men stand out in the wet, and has 
ordered the buglers not to sound the reveille. While 
resting, I betake myself to the goose — now truly a water- 
fowl and wetter than he ever was in his life — and 
manage to breakfast between the struggles. At last I 
am victorious, and have the boots beneath my feet, and 
go out to look around. 

The poetry most appropriate to the occasion would 
be a verse of that little infant school hymn, 

" The Lord, he makes the rain come down, 
The rain come down, the rain come down, 
Afternoon and morning." 

But poetry is the last thing I think of, for my 
thoughts run on the roads ; and some drenched pickets, 
who look as though they wanted to be hung on a fence 
to dry, inform me that I will have hard work to get 
through, and that it has rained all night as it is raining 
now. At home, what a hardship, what an outrage it 
would be to send us off in such weather and on such 
roads. Now, we fear something may prevent, and 



A FLAG OF TEUCE. 61 

hurry lest it come, for the road is not more uncomfort- 
able than the camp, or the rain wetter elsewhere than it 
is here. The doctor is a grey-headed, prudent, experi- 
enced man, and is something of an invalid ; but he 
stoutly discredits a rumor that the wounded men have 
died, and whispers to me that we had better be off, 
before any more such stories come in. 

A flag of truce is not kept ready-made in camp, and 
we are rather puzzled of what to make one now. " I'd 
lend you my white handkerchief (says a man who 
has been listening with great gravity to various sug- 
gestions) — " I'd lend you my white handkerchief, only 
I'm afeard if you put it up, the rebels 'ud think you'd 
histe-tud the black flag, and give you no quarter." We 
do not borrow the white handkerchief. But at length 
we remember the hospital tent, and the hospital steward 
produces a piece of white something from his stores, 
which is bound around a stick and made into a flag. 

Under circumstances such as these, the doctor climbs 
into the ambulance, I mount my horse, and we start. 
The rain somewhat abates, and diminishes to a drizzle, 
which is a great relief; but the ambulance drao*s aloni* 
snail-like through the mud. "We, who are mounted, do 
not ride faster than a walk, yet repeatedly have to wait, 
and watch it crawling after us among the trees. This 
slow movement gives little exercise, and when one 
starts wet, he soon becomes cold and stiff, sitting thus 
motionless in a damp saddle. Xor can we trot ofT a 
mile or two, and then wait for the ambulance to catch 



62 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. - 

up, for some straggling rebel soldiers may be on any 
cross-road, or in any thicket, and pounce upon the 
ambulance as so much plunder, and shoot the doctor 
before they inquire into the facts. A surgeon is a non- 
combatant, and not required to be shot at, and we 
must stay near by and shield him, if nothing more. 

Our road is the first object of interest — a wagon 
track running along high forest ridges, parallel to the 
Tennessee. We soon pass a little timber house, with its 
scanty field and scantier garden ; and then go on, on, 
two, three miles, without seeing a sign of life ; and then 
we turn into the main road from the river to Paris. 
There is now a railroad passing through Paris, from 
Nashville to Memphis, yet a year ago the road we are 
now travelling was its main avenue. We are, therefore, 
disappointed in finding that although the farms are 
frequent, they are poor and neglected, and the dwell- 
ings are the same backwoods, timber houses we have 
so often seen. 

We have now travelled seven or eight miles, and 
have passed the u line of our pickets." In point of fact, 
there is no line, real or imaginary, and we do not see a 
single picket; yet, inasmuch as our cavalry is con- 
stantly passing through and examining, by night and 
by day, a belt of country from six to eight miles wide, 
it is customary to speak of that belt as within our 
picket lines. Hitherto I have ridden at the head of the 
party, and the ambulance has followed close behind. 
Now some additional precaution is necessary. A man , 



A FLAG OF TEITCE. 63 

rides about the width of a city block ahead of us car- 
rying the flag, and the ambulance falls back about 
the same distance in the rear. The object of these 
changes is, first, that a man riding alone in advance 
indicates that it is not an ordinary scouting party ; and 
second, if shots are fired, the doctor and his man will be A 
out of danger. The chief risks we run are, first, that 
our object may not be perceived, and we be fired into 
before we can explain; and second, that King's cavalry, 
who are said to have suffered in the late fight, and to 
be a wild, marauding set, may never have heard of the 
laws of war, and utterly disregard the flag of truce. 

Five hours have passed, and we have just reached 
Mr. Clokes'. How delightful is a wood fire, roaring 
and crackling in a wide, old-fashioned fire-place, and 
how comforting is a dry board floor in a rainy day ! 
Chairs and a table, too, are articles of luxury, if one but 
knew it; and when you have dined and breakfasted, 
seated on logs or saddles, or such like conveniences, for 
a few weeks, you appreciate them properly. I might 
add a paragraph on plates and knives and forks ; but 
of those I have not been deprived more than a week at 
a time, and hence they do not fall within the class 
of novelties. 

This dinner I shall always fondly remember. I can- 
not call to mind any other dinner that at all rivals it. 
"VVe arc so hungry, and cold, and wet, and it is so 
pleasant to u sit down to dinner" once more. And 
then this dinner is so nice, and neat, and plentiful, 



64: SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

showing, for a soldier's cooking, a good housewife's care! 
If that bewatered goose could see it, he would feel 
ashamed of himself, and request leave to be cooked over 
again. I was about to begin with the tablecloth, and 
enumerate all that was on it ; but it occurs to me that 
what is a feast to us is an every-day affair to you, and 
that you will shrug your shoulders, and say, " Not 
much of a dinner after all." And I must confess that 
Mrs. Clokes' apologies called my attention to certain 
wants, which show that our blockade has been effective 
in disturbing the serenity of Southern housewives. . 

" I have nothing but rye coffee to offer you, gentle- 
men : it is impossible for us to get coffee now." 

" What does coffee cost down here, Mrs. Clokes?" 

" The last we bought was a dollar a pound, but now 
we cannot get it at any price. Everything is dreadfully 
scarce. I'm sorry we have no fresh meat, but the 
soldiers [rebels, she means] have taken a great many of 
our pigs, and we Tost some which we killed, for want 
of good salt." Salt, I find, was fourteen dollars a sack 
when last heard from, and, like coffee, has gone entirely 
out of the market. 

In the corner is a colored girl carding cotton by 
hand. I look at the operation with some interest, 
and Mrs. Clokes goes on with the story of her wants : 
" There is no calico to be had, and we have to spin 
and weave by hand. Do you know, sir, whether trade 
will be opened soon with the North : our hand-cards 
are nearly worn out, and I do not know where to look 



A FLAG OF TRUCE. . - 65 

for others ? A neighbor of ours paid ten dollars for a 
pair the other day, and I don't suppose I could buy them 
at any price now." [They are worth fifty cents a pair.] 

But there is a heavier grief in poor Mrs. Clokes' breast. 
She talks of her son : " He is so ill and so young, he will 
die if kept a prisoner at the North, and he did not 
enlist till they threatened the drafting. Oh ! why did 
we ever go to war, we were so prosperous and happy! 
Gentlemen, can't you do anything for my son?" And 
poor Mrs. Clokes' voice fails her, and she bursts into 
tears. These are some of the sweets of rebellion. 

But, dinner done, we must resume our journey. It is 
nine miles now to Paris. We have seen no rebel pickets ; 
but our friends, the contrabands, tell us, that they have 
gone along a little while ago, and it will be dangerous 
meeting in the dark. 

Thirty yeai*3 ago two brothers came from Massachu- 
setts and put up their little spinning-mill near Paris. 
The mill has grown larger as they have grown older, 
and they are now among the wealthy men of the place. 
Situated as they are — from the North — from hated 
Massachusetts ; — for years employing free labor, and 
owning slaves only through their Southern wives ; they 
have had to be most circumspect in every word and act, 
giving no sign of loyalty, but, I doubt not, secretly 
exulting at each success of the national arms. When 
our troops retreated from Paris, leaving their dead on 
the neighboring field, the one brother had the bodies of 
our fallen soldiers carefully brought in, and buried 



6Q SKETCHES OF THE' WAR. 

them, as if they were his own kinsmen, in the town 
cemetery ; and the other took the dying captain of our 
artillery corps into his own house, and nursed him ten- 
derly through his last hours. It is in the gloom of 
evening that w T e reach the factory, standing close to the 
track of the Memphis railroad, neat and unadorned, 
New England reflected from every one of its plain 
white boards. A gentleman comes forward as we halt, 
and I introduce myself. He steps up close, and asks, in 
a low voice, if we think we are safe. A train was up 
an hour ago taking down the telegraph wires ; pickets 
have galloped past, and are now in Paris, and he thinks 
it dangerous for us to go there to-night. He also says, 
that he dare not ask us to stop ; he came near being 
arrested for taking in poor Captain Bullis. If he should 
ask us, he would be arrested and on his way to Mem- 
phis within twelve hours. 

There is a house beyond, where we can stay ; but it is 
a rule with me to advance, and then fall back to my 
camping ground. So we retrace our steps for a mile, 
and halt at the farm house of a Mr. Horton, who does 
not keep a tavern, but does entertain travellers. The 
sergeant, with one man, has ridden on to break the sub- 
ject and make arrangements, and when we come up, 
everything is ready. Our w T eary horses are soon unsad- 
dled and rolling in straw, and I follow the doctor into 
the house. 

It is an old house, with old trees in front, and an old 
couple within. They sit on each side of the wide wood 



A FLAG OF TEUCE. 67 

fire, and each comfortably puffs a pipe of home-grown 
tobacco. We sit down and join them, and talk Union 
for an hour or two. 

Our host is a hale, hearty old man. He glories in the 
past, laments the present, and hopes for the future. 
The old lady listens with great gravity, and occasionally 
puts in a word between the puffs of her pipe. 

" They would not let us vote for the Union at the 
second election," says the old man, " and I hadn't time 
to vote against it. So I stayed at home and told 'em 
that one election was enough in one year, and I couldn't 
spare time for more." 

" Yes," says the old lady, " quite enough, and I 
thought something would happen when I found we 
were having two." 

" I don't believe in Mr. Davis' doctrine," says the old 
man, " of fighting in the last ditch till everybody's 
dead. "We were the most prosperous, happy people on 
the earth, and we had better go back and be so -again 
than be killed." 

" No, indeed !" says the old lady ; " they had better 
not ; and if they did, there would be nobody left for 
our girls to marry but northerners ; so the South would 
get to be the North in no time." 

Our room is a large one, with another large fire and 
three beds. The doctor takes one, and I hand the 
others over to the men ; it will not do for me to undress, 
so I take my buffalo, and lie down by the fire. 

I was beginning to doze, and thinking I never was so 



68 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

comfortable in my life — it was so delightful to shut your 
eyes and stretch yourself out, and feel the pleasant 
warmth of this glowing, flickering fire, when the open- 
ing of the door startles me, and I see the sergeant, who 
is "on guard," come in. 

He reports that two men on horseback came up from 
Paris; one of them stopped and called out our host. 
They had a long conversation in a low voice, and then 
the man turned and rode hack on a gallop. " And the 
contrabands say that the old man is secesh," pursues the 
sergeant, " and when the rebel troops went by, he made 
them come out and hurrah." This is agreeable. Was 
the man on horseback a picket, and will there be a troop 
clattering down on us in a few minutes ? or has he gone 
to raise a crowd of irresponsible countrymen, who will 
think it fine fun to kill us and capture our horses, and 
of whom Gen. Beauregard will say, he really knows 
nothing, they were not soldiers, and acted without 
authority ? Is our old friend false to us ? 

" Sergeant, what do you think of it ?" 

The sergeant is a shrewd judge of character, and 
there is no one in the squadron wdiose opinion I would 
regard more highly on such a point as this. He comes 
up close to the fire, and I see his face has a very anxious 
expression, and he says, after a long pause : " I don't 
know what to think of it." 

" Well, go back and pick out a place where you can 
see up the Paris road, and call me the instant you see 
any object moving. Doctor, I say, did you hear that?" 



A FLAG OF TRUCE. 69 

" Yes, and I don't know what to think of it," says 
the doctor. " Can anything be done ?" 

" The worst of it is, doctor, that the flag prevents our 
doing anything till actually attacked. We must now 
go in the character of guests, professing entire faith. 
If we were on ordinary duty, our sergeant would have 
stopped that man, and I should keep him here till we 
leave. As it is, we can neither fight nor run away — 
though it is hardly fair, as you are a non-combatant, to 
make you risk it." 

" I think I will risk it if you do," says the doctor ; 
and he turns over and goes to sleep. 

I lie by the fire this time without dozing. The men 
are all sleeping heavily and undisturbed. The hovering 
danger does not trouble them. Soon it is time to 
ohange guard. I rouse the next man, and the sergeant 
comes in and takes his place on the bed. I wonder if 
other people find a weight in responsibility. Many 
talked to me of the danger of the cavalry service — only 
one ever named this other word, which is much the 
heavier. The men have no responsibility, and are at 
rest; the sergeant, lately so anxious, has made his 
report, performed his duty, and has no more responsi- 
bility : he now sleeps as soundly as the others. 

The man on guard will be relieved of his in an hour 
or two, and he will lie down and slumber too. But I 
hear the distant barking of dogs, and start up at the 
sound, for we have learnt to observe the movements of 
our own cavalry at night by this sign. Every house 



70 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

keeps half a dozen curs, and they yelp frantically when 
a body of horse is passing. I open the door softly and 
peer out. The moon sheds a dim light through the 
clouds, disclosing the long line of road and distant 
woods toward Paris. The sentinel stands motionless 
under a tree by the road side. "Allen, do you see any- 
thing?" "No, sir." "Did you hear that barking?" 
" Yes, sir." " Watch whether it sounds again at any 
other house, and if it is coming toward us." We listen 
long but hear nothing. It must have been a chance 
disturbance there. I lie down again, consoling myself 
with the thought, that I am at least warm and dry. 
The geese make a tremendous cackling behind the 
house. Eome was saved by a flock of geese, and why 
shouldn't we be. The sentinel is watching the road in 
front; it will be better if I go out and inspect the 
rear. 

Thus the time passes till I post the next man on 
guard, and thus the night wears away, till at 4 a.m. I 
rouse the last one. Soon after I hear sounds about the 
house, for the contrabands rise early, then come sighs 
of breakfast, then the grey light of morning, and with 
it the voice of our old host and a warning that his wife 
is up and breakfast almost ready. It is a right good 
breakfast, and we start as soon as it is done, repass the 
factory, travel over a couple of miles of muddy road, 
and come in sight of Paris. 

There are brick houses in view, four church spires, 
large trees and a court house ; but we discover no Con- 



A FLAG- OF TRUCE. 71 

federate flag. In another moment we have entered, 
and are going up the main street. The first man stops 
'and looks at us, so does the second and the third. The 
moment a man catches a glimpse of us he seems to 
freeze fast to the sidewalk and lose all power over him- 
self, save that of staring vacantly at the Yankee cavalry. 
We seem to be riding up an avenue of these staring, 
frozen images. The red brick court house has a little 
square around it and forms a natural halting place. I 
ride up and ask one of the frozen if there is any Confe- 
derate officer in town. He says "No," in a frightened 
way ; " they all retired this morning, a couple of hours 
ago." This relieved me of my flag of truce. We find 
that two of our wounded men have been removed to 
Memphis, and the third is too low to bear moving. The, 
doctor, with the physician who has been attending him, 
start off to see him, and I draw my men up to the 
fence and let them dismount. My North Moore street 
education has made me much more particular in 
"deportment" than volunteer officers generally are, 
and my squadron, when on duty, generally bears the 
same appearance to some other squadrons that North 
Moore street does to some other schools. These towns- 
people are therefore very much astonished to see a man 
left t>n guard with the horses, and perfectly amazed 
when he draws his sabre and marches steadily up and 
down his beat, and I hear one whisper, " Perhaps they 
be United States reg'lars." 

In a few minutes there is quite a crowd of congealed 



72 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

citizens around us, all staring solemnly in icy silence. 
They say nothing to ns or to each other, but steadily 
stare. I feel their looks crawling down my back and 
round my sides, and turn which way I will, there is no 
shaking them off. I have faced the eyes of many an 
audience, but never such as this. They neither smile 
nor frown, nor agree nor disagree ; but have a vague, 
stupid look of frightened wonder, as though we were 
dangerous serpents escaped from a travelling menagerie, 
which they can see for nothing at the risk of being 
swallowed alive. 

It is best to be cool and comfortable under all sorts 
of circumstances, so I take out my pipe, exhibit a 
North Moore street bag to these gay Parisians, and 
.strike a light. Picking out the most sensible man near 
me, I commence a conversation complimenting them on 
the appearance of their little town, which is more 
northernly neat than I expected to find. Some men 
then come up and hand to me the little effects of our 
dead soldiers, and give many assurances of their kind- 
ness to our wounded. The doctor about this time 
comes back, and we start immediately on our return. 
For some miles I march rapidly, urging the ambulance 
horses to their utmost, for there is no saying but the 
rebel cavalry may return and amuse themselves by a 
pursuit. Then we drop in to our previous slow gait, 
and calculate that we shall reach camp by sunset. 

There is a long bridge on this road crossing a stream, 
with the pretty name of " The Holly Fork ;" on our 



A FLAG OF TRUCK. 73 

way out, it struck me that our road to Paris might be 
very easily barred by a little bridge-burning, and at 
Paris some questions were asked which indicated that 
it was to have been burned ere this. I measure it as 
we recross, and finding that it is 255 feet long, and that 
the stream cannot be forded, send on two men with a 
report to the colonel. 

It is now five o'clock, and we are two miles from 
camp. My horse has been going almost uninterruptedly 
for ten hours, and I am promising him a good bed of 
leaves and a long night's rest, when, through the trees, 
come two troopers riding on a gallop. They pull up, 
and hand me a letter from the colonel : " Captain (it 
says), your squadron is detailed to guard the bridge at 
Holly Fork; you will take all proper measures to 
defend it if attacked, and will remain there until 
relieved by some other squadron." 

" Did you see anything of my men ?" I say to the 
messengers. " Yes ; they were saddling up, and will be 
along soon." I may as well keep on ; they may be 
bringing me a fresh horse, and then I can send this one 
back by these men. In half an hour I find the man 
who leads has lead us on to a wrong road. He tries a 
cross-cut, and the cross-cut leads to a field. We must 
turn the ambulance round and retrace both errors. It 
is vexatious in the extreme, to have this additional 
load put on my willing horse after two such days' work ; 
and besides, the squadron may have passed while we 
were wandering about here. I curb my impatience as 
4 



74 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

well as I can, and at length we reach the road. There, 

plain enough, is a cavalry trail, freshly made since we 

turned off, and it tells its own story — the squadron has 

gone by. 

" Captain," says the doctor from the ambulance, 

" must you go back ?" 

" Yes, doctor, I suppose 1 must." 
" Well, if you must, here is your haversack." 
"Thank you, doctor; is there anything left in yours?" 
" Yes ; some hard biscuit and dry beef. I will put 

them in for you." And the doctor transfers them from 

his haversack to mine. 

" Now, Bisckoff, roll up the buffalo ; quick's the 

word ; we must go back to within seven miles of Paris, 

and the sun is setting." 

" Good-bye, captain," calls the doctor as I start. " I 

hope you won't be hurt to-night." 

" I hope not, doctor ; good-bye. And now, Bischoff, 

for the squadron and Holly Fork." 



THE HOLLY FOEK. 75 

VI. 

THE HOLLY FORK. 

Camp Lowe, Tennessee, April 15th, 1862. 
We rode rapidly along the wooded ridges. The 
fading daylight told us that the sun had set behind his 
cloudy screen, and when we reached the main road, 
there was light enough to show dimly the trail turning 
toward Paris. In this cavalry service, one becomes so 
attached to his constant companions by day and by 
night, that you must forgive me for describing mine. 
Bischoff's horse is a beautiful sorrel blood, high 
spirited, yet quiet and gentle as a lamb. My own 
horse is a prisoner from Fort Donelson. On the event- 
ful Sunday morning, I found him tied in a yard, near 
where General Floyd took to his boat, and have no 
doubt he was left by the runaway part of the garrison. 
At first I was rather disposed not to buy him from the 
government, aud it was more the desire to retain a 
trophy of Fort Donelson, than his merits, that decided 
the question. He is a fine Kentucky blood, but had 
too many Southern traits — snorting when there was 
nothing to snort at, quiet when alone, but full of fuss 
when anybody was by, and, once, seceding from the 
smooth and travelled way, only to be brought back by a 
good thrashing, which, indeed, was the basis of our good 
understanding. But in this Paris journey, his Arabian 



76 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

blood atoned for his Southern education. It was 
refreshing to feel these high bred horses rousing them- 
selves for their new march, as though it were the 
beginning of a new day, breaking into a gallop where- 
ever the road allowed, and dashing along without word 
or spur as though just out of the stable. 

On the summit of a long hill is a farm house, 
and as we thus approached it on a gallop, I saw a 
group of men, and rows of cavalry horses tied to the 
fences. For a moment I thought my pursuit was over, 
but a closer glance through the dim twilight told me 
these were too few for the squadron — it was the picket 
guard taking their last rest before going out on their 
posts for the night. " Your men are about two miles 
ahead of you, captain," said the officer of the picket, 
and we rode on. As we descended the next hill, the 
last glimmer of daylight left us, and the darkness of a 
gloomy, cloudy night shrouded the road. I had been 
riding rapidly while the daylight lasted, but so had the 
squadron. Ordinarily, there would have been a halt 
before this, to re-adjust saddles and examine pistols, 
but it was now evident that while I was making every 
exertion to overtake them, they were making every 
exertion to meet me. I knew their orders must have 
been to proceed till they should meet me, and I could 
imagine that they supposed I was alone at the bridge, 
and were urging their horses to my relief. " Confound 
that blockhead," I was inclined to mutter ; but there 
was no help for his blunder, save to hurry on. 



THE HOLLY FORK. 77 

A couple of miles beyond the picket guard, the road 
descends into a dreary swamp. It seems too dreary for 
any creature to live in ; bushes and trees have died, 
and the tall, spectral trunks stand, like ghosts of a 
departed forest. Deep holes and fallen trees had made 
the crossing no easy task in daytime, and I now 
approached it with some misgivings, and many wishes 
that we were well over. 

Tennessee led bravely down the bank, on a trot, 
crossing the rickety bridge and plunging into the sub- 
merged road, without abating his speed. Here Bischoff 
fell behind. His beautiful Ida had galloped since we 
turned back, as though running a race ; but this was a 
slough of despond, through which she had to pick her 
way with care. The instinct of my horse was wonder- 
ful. Too dark for me to guide him, I threw the reins 
on his neck and trusted everything to him. With his 
head stretched out, he crossed and re-crossed the 
invisible road, avoiding its dangers, as it seemed to me, 
by precisely the same path he had picked out by day- 
light. Several times branches dashed in my face, and 
once my cap was nearly swept off; but with no other 
mishaps, I found we were approaching the opposite 
bank, and soon felt his tread again on firm ground. I 
stopped for a moment and listened, but could hear 
nothing of the squadron before, or of Bischoff behind. I 
was alone with my good horse. Yet, as I reached the 
top of the next hill, I was greeted with a cheering sound 
— for from a house in the distance came the yelps of its 



lb SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

half dozen dogs, and in a moment the yelp was repeated 
from the house beyond. I knew then where my men 
were. At the same time, Tennessee, who had been 
disposed to linger for Ida, started forward, showing 
that by sight, or sound, or smell, he recognized his 
friends ahead, and was greatly disposed to try whether 
they were fresher than he. The swamp had brought 
the squadron to a walk, and, for a few moments, to a 
halt ; and it was these few moments of delay that had 
enabled me to close up the distance between us. 

As I approached, I was somewhat soothed, to find 
the men were deserving a very big mark in "deport- 
merit J" !No sound came from the silent column, save 
the trampling of the horses and the clanking of the 
sabres. A night march in an enemy's country requires 
secrecy, and the ordinary recreation of talk and song then 
has to be laid aside. I was now close upon them, and, 
stealing up to the rearmost man, I announced myself 
by the command, " Column — halt" The long line of 
horses stopped. Habit is a strong master. The unex- 
pected command, coming from the rear, and in the 
darkness, was obeyed as promptly as on parade. There 
was some surprise, a few questions and explanations, 
a few minutes' rest (during which Bischoff arrived), a 
general unslinging of canteens, and a great drinking 
of water; and then we pushed forward to finish the 
ten miles which lay between us and the Holly Fork. 

It was not so late but that the eyes of many little 
folk I know were then open. Yet with the Tennes- 



THE HOLLY FORK. 79 

scans it Is early to bed and early to rise (though truth 
compels me to add, they are neither healthy, wealthy, 
nor wise), and every house was as still and dark as 
though it were midnight, That morning in Paris, I 
had observed the shutters upon the stores. It puzzled 
me at first; then I whispered to the sergeant, "Is this 
Sunday ?" and he answered, " I really believe it is." 
This was indeed Sunday evening ! and yet I could 
hardly bring myself to believe that at the same hour, 
and while we were passing these lightless houses, 
whose undisturbed inmates slept, unconscious that their 
dreaded enemies were passing before their doors, in 
New York, the evening churches were not yet out, and 
the great city was probably more wide awake than at 
any other time of the preceding day. It was a con- 
trast, too, those crowded streets and this lonely road. 

At last I recognized the houses near the Fork. On the 
top of the hill, which overlooks the bridge, a cross road 
runs parallel to the brook. The road then descends the 
hill, and is carried, upon a long and narow causeway, 
to the bridge. A second causeway leads to the opposite 
bank, and on this bank a timber tobacco-barn com- 
mands the road beyond. We were then within seven 
miles of Paris, where six hundred of King's cavalry had 
been but two days before. It was possible they had 
returned — possible, indeed, that the Memphis railroad 
had brought up five thousand troops since I left there 
in the morning. I halted, therefore, a moment for pre- 
paration. The fourth (being the last) platoon was 



80 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

ordered to stop at the cross-road, and guard against 
our being surprised in the rear. With the remaining 
three I descended the hill. The second and third stayed 
at the beginning of the causeway, and the first, under 
command of the second-lieutenant, was ordered to cross 
the bridge, and take possession of the tobacco-barn on 
the bank. 

A dense wood covers the bridge and the causeway. 
The larger part of this is holly, and the beautiful ever- 
green added much to the darkness of the night ; so 
much that the road looked almost like the entrance of a 
cavern, the branches overarching above, and shading 
the dark passage-way below. Into this woodland tunnel 
the first platoon slowly rode. "We watched them as they 
disappeared, and then listened to the sound of their 
horses rumbling and clattering on the bridge. In a 
minute more they had crossed ; and then,, about as long 
as it would reasonably take to give an alarm, there 
came, or seemed to come, from the other side, perhaps, 
half a mile distant, the long roll of a drum. I was at 
the head of the column, and heard it distinctly ; and 
the men behind me instantly whispered, "There's a 
drum." Our immediate inference was that the enemy 
were on the other side, and, hearing our horses tramp- 
ling on the bridge, were beating to arms. Thinking it 
would not do to crowd more troops on the narrow cause- 
way until the first platoon had gained the opposite 
bank, I ordered them to follow if I fired my pistol, and 
rode forward to join the first. The galloping of my 



THE HOLLY FORK. 81 

horse roused the bull-frogs, and they bellowed so loudly 
that I thought I might hereafter believe the stories often 
told of their frightening armies into a retreat. But above 
them came, from different points, five or six hideous 
half-human yells, as though sentinels were giving sig- 
nals of our approach. They w r ere, however, too near 
and too irregular for that, and evidently came from the 
trees ; so that I quickly concluded that some night birds 
were the callers, and afterward ascertained them to be 
a species of Southern owl. In less time than I am 
writing this I had crossed, and found the platoon quietly 
examining the tobacco-barn. I asked about the drum. 
They had not heard it, and stoutly insisted there could 
have been none. I waited until some men who had 
been sent on returned, and reported the road was empty 
and quiet for a mile ahead ; and then, directing the 
lieutenant to place videttes in advance, and if attacked 
to draw up his horses in the rear of the barn and let his 
men fire through the logs until the main body should 
arrive, I recrossed the bridge. The men were still 
mounted, and waiting for the signal to advance. I 
informed them of what the first platoon had said, and 
they as stoutly insisted that there was a drum, because 
they had heard it. "Whether it was indeed some small 
party of rebels beating an alarm, or the footfalls of our 
own horses rolling from the bridge, and echoed back 
from some distant hill, I leave you to determine. 

I now turned my attention to preparations for the 
night. At the foot of the hill, and near the beginning 

4* 



82 SKETCHES OF THE WAR, 

of the causeway, a little country store stood empty and 
deserted. A fire was soon kindled, and its counter and 
shelves moved out of the way. All of the horses were 
kept saddled, and the men divided into two watches. 
One platoon, during the first half the night, stood by 
their horses, ready to mount in a moment, and then 
changed with the other for such rest as they could 
gather from the floor of the little building. The first, 
platoon remained across the creek as a picket-guard 
toward Paris, and the fourth in the rear as a picket for 
the cross-roads. I have been thus minute in order that 
you may have a clear idea of the manner in which such 
affairs are managed, and because I have never observed 
in the newspapers any narrative or statement which 
explains these details to friends at home. Perhaps yon 
will ask, "What is a picket?" The papers constantly 
speak of our pickets being "thrown out," or the enemy's 
being " driven in," but never tell what sort of creatures 
these pickets are. The pickets are sentinels beyond the 
camp guard, and toward the enemy. There may be a 
chain of pickets stretching over the country ; and the 
picket guard may be very large, or it may consist of a 
sergeant and six men. These are divided into three 
" relieves," which constitute the " videttes," or " look- 
oat," as Ave might translate it. Toward evening they 
pass out several miles upon the road they are to guard, 
and then select a place for the night, but this they do 
not occupy till after dark ; the sergeant then goes out 
with the first "relief," and "posts" them, selecting a 



THE HOLLY FORK. 83 

place where they can see without being seen. The two 
on duty must remain mounted, and silent ; the others 
may dismount, but not unsaddle; nor can they build a 
camp fire, nor indulge in any noise. After an hour the 
sergeant takes out the second "relief" and relieves the 
first, and then the third to relieve the second. 

After visiting the videttes, I agreed to relieve my 
lieutenant at three in the morning, and then returned 
to the little store, unbuckled my buffalo, and was soon 
stretched with the men on the floor. It seemed as 
though I had been there but a few seconds, when I was 
roused by some one laying his hand on my shoulder 
and saying " Captain!" in a low voice. You wake 
quickly under such circumstances, and I was on my 
feet in an instant, demanding what was the matter. 
" Nothing ; it's a quarter to three." " Indeed ! that's a 
very soft floor." And I went out and remounted. The 
clouds were gone and the moon shone brilliant in the 
clear sky. At the tobacco barn I found all quiet. The 
sentinel paced up and down in front, watching lest 
there should be an alarm from the videttes; and the 
men were stretched on some tobacco stalks within, 
sleeping as soundly without blankets as though on beds 
of down. It was time to relieve the videttes. " Call 
up the next relief." The sentinel goes in, shakes the 
next three, drops down himself, and in a minute is 
sound asleep. Of the three men who come out, one 
takes his place and the other two mount their horses. 
I had not personally relieved guard since at Camp 



34 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

Asbotli last October, and was struck with, the difference 
which practice and discipline had made. Then the 
men came out, one by one, half asleep, growling and 
yawning ; now they were up at the first touch, wide 
awake, and apparently as willing as though called to 
breakfast. 

On the crest of a hill, about a mile up the road, the 
videttes were posted. Seated, silent and motionless, on 
their horses, in front of a house, they looked in the 
moonlight like equestrian statues placed at the gateway, 
" Have you seen or heard anything ?" " ~No, sir," 
" Has everything been quiet in this house ?" " Yes, 
sir." " Well, you are relieved, and may cross the 
bridge ; there is a fire in the store, and it is quite comfort- 
able." Sitting thus motionless for hours in the chill 
night air, when the white frost is settling like snow on 
field and road, is no pleasant duty, and the mention of 
the fire was an unexpected gleam of comfort to the 
men. As they hastened back, we rode slowly on, 
partly to see if the road was clear, partly that the new 
relief might the better understand the ground they had 
to watch; and then I returned to the barn, where, 
fastening my horse, I paced up and down, and resorted 
to the usual methods of keeping warm. I glanced at 
my watch ; but half an hour had gone, and two and a 
half remained. Time passes very slowly under such 
circumstances. Relieving the videttes broke in upon 
the monotony. " The people are stirring in the house, 
they have just started a fire," was the report. " Don't 



THE HOLLY FORK, 85 

let any of them go up the road on any pretext ;" and I 
rode back to the barn. How surprised they will be, I 
thought, when they come out and find two "armed 
invaders" have been watching over them while they 
slept. When I next came my round, the man of the 
house had just come out. He merely glanced at us, 
walked by, giving a sulky nod, and proceeded to feed 
his pigs, with as much indifference as though it were 
nothing to him whether a whole regiment of Yankees 
were in front of his door, or a hundred miles off. 

So passed the time till a bright light gleamed through 
the trees toward the east. The sentinel saw it first. 
" Is that a fire, captain ? " he- asked. No; it was the 
morning star. Slowly it seemed to climb the trees, 
moving steadily from branch to branch, till it beamed 
from the clear sky above. Then came a belt of pale 
silver light, which grew brighter and brighter, until it 
turned to crimson ; and then rose the sun. Our watch 
is over. " Call up the men, sergeant ; order the second 
platoon across ; and take a man and go two miles up the 
road, and see if there are any rebels there." 

We passed a busy day. Parties were sent out, up 
and down the brook, to see if there were bridges or 
fords near us, and to ascertain where the cross-roads 
ran ; others for forage ; and one toward Paris, to watch 
any movement there. Guards were placed to stop per- 
sons on the road, so that no information might be 
carried to the enemy. I explored the banks of the 
brook near us, to make sure that no party could cross 



86 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

and attack us unexpectedly during the coming night. 
Late in the afternoon I had my horse unsaddled, spread 
my buffalo on the floor, pulled off my boots, and laid 
down for a good sleep before my night-watch com- 
menced. Hardly down, ere an officer arrived from 
caui^ Another squadron was coming to relieve us, 
and we were to return immediately. The men who had 
been on duty all day were asleep ; their horses were all 
down too ; our arrangements were all nicely completed 
for the night ; but we must go. " Call in the videttes 
and saddle up," were the orders; and soon we were 
marching back. So ended my first experience in 
guarding bridges, and my care of the bridge over the 
Holly Fork. 

There is in our school "Readers" a certain lesson 
about a vagrant little brook, wherein is told that " the 
glossy-green and coral clusters of the holly flung down 
reflections in rich profusion on the little pool visited 
by a ray of softer sunshine," etc. These words (if I 
recollect them rightly) were printed in different " Read- 
ers " in different ways ; sometimes a hyphen between 
glossy-green, sometimes a comma ; and again no mark 
whatever. A fearful wilderness of words it was, in 
which scholars and teachers, and even principals, at 
examinations, and other important times and seasons, 
have gone astray : whoever could correctly construe 
"glossy green" and "visited," could do what no one 
el'se could. While standing guard at the bridge, there 
came to me the memories of the reading lesson — of the 



THE HOLLY FORK. 87 

one who succeeded and the many who failed-j^-of dis- 
concerted faces and puzzled looks, and the Holly Fork 
became associated with the lesson, as hereafter (should 
I ever return to North Moore street) the lesson will, 
doubtless, call to mind the Holly Fork. 

d 



88 SKETCHES OF THE WAR, 

VII 

SCOUTING. 

Camp Lowe, April, 1862. 

It is a pleasant Spring morning, and I am ordered to 
take my company and " scout to and beyond Conyers- 
ville, with two days' rations." There is a stir and 
bustle through our tents, and great delight at the 
thought of going out. Some are bringing up horses 
from the picket ropes ; others are rolling blankets, and 
strapping them behind the saddles ; others are packing 
away coffee, pork and hard biscuit in a pair of rude 
saddle-bags, which we have made from an old tent, and 
now carry on a led horse. Soon Bischoff leads his horse 
and mine up to the tent, and soon after the first sergeant 
reports all ready. The men are drawn up in line ; they 
" count off by fours ;" the order is given, " by two's to 
the right," and we are marching slowly over the high 
hills and through the tall oaks which belt the Ten- 
nessee. 

Though it is a March morning, the air is as soft and 
balmy as it will be in New York next May ; and in the 
distance, the opening buds throw a mist-like haze over 
the forests. Here and there a crow starts from some 
tall tree, and caws familiarly as he flies away ; and high 
over head, the chicken hawk sails round and round as 
we have often seen him do at home. When first we 



SCOUTING. b\? 

came here last February, there were robins in these 
woods and many Northern birds, who seemed sad and 
songless, and behaved like invalids passing the winter 
at the South. The meadow lark spread her wings lan- 
guidly, and the robins sat listless on the apple trees, as 
though they were home-sick, and, like us, longed to fly 
back to their Northern nests. The blackbirds alone 
kept up their spirits, flying around and across such 
fields as they could find in rapid, veering, fitful flight — 

"And in the spring the veeries sing 
The song of long ago." 

If you had been riding with us for the last five mileSj 
you would think we were travelling through an unbroken 
forest. The bridle-road, worn smooth by cavalry horses, 
runs down in deep hollows and climbs up high hills — 
but always in the woods. Fallen trees lie across it, 
frequently compelling us to zig-zag round them ; and 
when we look out from the openings on the brow of the 
higher hills, we see nothing but woods — unending 
woods. One or two melancholy figures have met us; 
clad in their sombre dress, and mounted on their ambling 
mules, they have silently nodded and passed on. Once 
or twice the settler's axe has rung out from some distant 
dale, as if to tell how far these solitudes extend. The 
wild turkey has called to us not far from the road ; the 
quails have sat still, and looked curiously at us; and the 
brown turkey buzzard has soared near by, as though he 
neither knew nor cared whether we were there or aofc. 



90 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

Yet, nestled in these wilds, are many farms and houses, 
whose owners love seclusion, and hide themselves from 
each other by a veil of intervening forest. 

In one of these there lives an elderly man named 
Patterson. When first by accident we rode past his 
door, one of the men said " He looks more like a Union 
man than any one we have seen yet;" and we soon 
learnt that he was a Philadelphian, who had wandered 
to Tennessee many years ago for health : he had mar- 
ried here, settled and become a Tennessian. His 
clothes are the yellowish, brownish homespun, which we 
all call " butternut ;" and his house has the strange 
opening through the centre, so common here. I cannot 
quite determine whether these Tennessee houses consist 
of two houses hitched together by " the roof o'erhead " 
and the floor beneath, or of one long house, with a big 
hole cut through the middle. They are not bad in 
warm weather, for there is a breeze blowing through 
this open part, and in it the family sit and work. The 
stone chimney runs up the outside of the house, and 
gourd dippers are hung around the door. 

I like these gourd dippers much — the water tastes 
better from them than from anything else, and the 
sight of one makes me thirsty. We therefore stop to 
see Mr. Patterson, and get a drink ; the pail of fresh 
water is quickly carried from the spring, and the gourd 
dippers are eagerly seized by the men. 

Some miles from Mr. Patterson, we stop to feed. It's 
a bleak house, and looks as though the owner had been 



SCOUTING. 01 

long away. Two small boys appear — very frightened 
and very civil. 

" Where is your father, my boy ?" I ask of the elder. 

" In the army, sir." 

" The Southern army ?" 

" Yes, sir." 

" And your mother ?" 

" She's gone up to grandfather's." 

" Well, my boy, I shall have to take some of your 
corn for our horses." 

" Oh ! I don't care nothin' about the corn, if yuh 
wunt pester us." 

We all laugh at this, and assure him he shan't be 
pestered. The horses are unbridled, picketed to the 
fence, and fed ; and the men sit on the sunny side of the 
road and eat their dinner. We take an hour's rest and 
then remount. As we come in sight of a rather better 
looking house than usual, w T e see a couple of its young 
ladies in the garden, men ploughing in the field, and 
women working in the yard. Suddenly there's a great 
commotion. The two young ladies turn and fly to the 
house ; the men in the field drop their ploughs and run 
to the house ; the women in the yard follow to the 
house. We ask, what can the matter be ; it looks as 
though a thunder storm had burst on them, and they 
have run to the house to keep dry. But as we draw 
nearer, we see them anxiously peering through doors 

and windows at us. " There's a chance for you, W , 

to be polite ; ride up and ask them if they've been 



92 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

troubled by guerrillas, and whether we can be of any 
service." My lieutenant turns his horse and gallops 
across the field. We watch him as he approaches the 
house, and laugh as we observe the inmates rapidly 
retire from door and windows. Then one contraband 
comes bravely out, to whom the lieutenant appears to 
be talking ; and then reappear the men, the women, five 
or six dogs, and the two young ladies. The lieutenant 
soon rejoins us, laughing; we were the first United 
States soldiers they had seen, and they didn't know but 
we would burn the house and kill them ; they had run 
to the house, because it was " nat'ral," and they didn't 
know w T here else to run. 

But evening approaches, and I must choose a camp- 
ing ground for the night. On our left, half a mile back 
from the road, I can see a large house, surrounded with 
many stacks and corn-cribs. It belongs to Major 
Thornton, who is spoken of as a very rich man, and by 
no means a loyal one. He has not yet had the pleasure 
of entertaining soldiers, and I determine to stop with 
him for the night. But do not suppose that I shall 
halt now while the sun is up, and messengers can ride 
off and tell King's cavalry that we are here. Oh, no ! 
we shall make a long circuit, and steal back here three 
or four hours from now — when people in the adjoining 
houses have gone to bed, and the darkness hides our 
movements and our sleeping-place 

An hour or two brings us to Conyersville. It is 
indeed hidden from us by some woods, but for half an 



SCOUTING. vd 

hour every one has told us it was " a-byout uh haf uh 
mile uh sy o ;" so we feel sure it is not far off now. A 
contraband is seen coming down the road, and he stops 
and tells me there are soldiers in Conyersville — he don't 
know which kind; he says he " could see them a moving 
along the road, and was afeard to go in, for fear they 
might be seceshers." We have two squadrons out, but 
they were not expected here, and King's camp is only a 
dozen miles or so away, 'lis an even chance whether 
they are our men or the enemy's. "Close up." "Form 
fours." " Draw sabre." In a minute we will be in a 
fight, or — -jogging along as quietly as before. We reach 
the top of a little hill, and on another road before us is 
moving the dust and figures of a body of cavalry — but 
through it is seen the blue jackets and sabres of our 
troops, and in another moment we recognize them as 
our own men. I hold a short conference with the cap- 
tain, and then we ride into Conyersville. 

Conyersville is " not much of a place," the men say ; 
" there is a tavern, and a store, and a blacksmith shop, 
and half a dozen houses ; and the folks are all secesh." 
Yet weeks in the woods give one a craving for a city ; 
so we stop at Conyersville a little wdiile, all the while 
knowing there is nothing to see. We then turn to the 
left, and go some miles down the Paris road. We pass a 
road that runsvback to Major Thornton's, partly because 
it is too early to go there, partly to the better mislead 
any one who might follow us. At last, as it grows dark, 
we come to a second road, which turns off at a sharp 



91 SKETCHES OF THE WAS. 

angle and goes to the major's ; and this we take. It 
runs through thick woods — through a swamp — along 
the edge of a little millpond — over its rickety bridge, 
and close to its little mill. It is so dark, indeed, that 
we can hardly find the major's, and even ride a little 
way past the gate. At length we turn in, and the 
lieutenants ride on to wake the people up and inform 
them that we are coming. Being rather grander 
people than usual, they have not gone to bed. Now, 
walking into a man's house and taking possession of it 
is not an agreeable task. At home, it seemed so ; but 
when you come face to face with the man, and more 
especially with the man's wife and children, the duty 
becomes unpleasant. It is done somewhat in this way : 
One of the lieutenants is standing by. the garden gate, 
with a stout man beside him, and as I ride up, he says, 
" This is Major Thornton." " I am sorry to trouble 
you, Major Thornton, but I must stay here to-night, 
and shall have to take forage for sixty horses, and use 
your kitchen for my men to cook their supper. Where 
would you prefer my putting the horses V ' The major 
says he has a large barn yard ; that will suit him, if it 
will suit us. " Very well, sir, if you will send some of 
your men to show us and give out the forage, I will see 
that none is wasted." 

The men wheel into the yard, and a couple of con- 
trabands, very loyal and cheerful, assist lis to the 
major's oats. They enjoy feeding the United States 
horses at the major's expense immensely, and insist on 



SCOUTING. 95 

throwing down from the stack a dozen more sheaves 
than we want. " It nil do them ere hosses of yourn 
so much good — they don't get oats every day — oats 
mighty scarce in this country; and the major, he's 
nothin' but a secesher," they say. 

"While I am overlooking the men, Bischoif, with his 
usual skill, has picked out the best place in the yard 
for the horses. " You sleep here, captain," he says, 
" this side of the corn crib, and I tie the horses close 
by, and then get some corn stalks and make a bed." 
Meanwhile I have a private talk with one of the con- 
trabands, and learn all I can about the roads around us. 
"How many men for guard and picket, captain ?" asks 
the first sergeant. " I find there are two roads, sergeant, 
so you will have to detail fifteen men and a sergeant 
and corporal. I shall sleep at the end of the corn crib ; 
let them bring up their horses there, and let the other 
men unsaddle." 

This done, I walk in to see Major Thornton and his 
family. The major is a middle-aged gentleman, w T ho 
revels in a rich farm and sixty niggers. He is very 
civil, but by no means glad to see us. But his w T ife is 
a kind woman, whose hospitality has become a habit, 
and she could not treat us with more politeness and 
cordiality if we w T ere really her guests. She gives the 
men all the milk in the dairy, which is always a treat 
to them, and urges me to let as many as possible sleep 
in the house — she has fourteen beds, she says, at their 
service, and it will be too bad to make them sleep out 



96 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

in the cold. But the men must sleep together, and by 
their horses; so her good natured offer is declined. 
Beside Mrs. Thornton, there is a good natured little 
daughter, with light hair and blue eyes, and the pretty 
name of Nelly. Miss Nelly tells me that the war has 
cut them off from literature, which they took in form 
of the New York " Ledger." She brings out some of 
the old numbers, with Mr. Cobb's terrific stories and 
pictures of knights on horseback and ladies in swoons, 
all looking so familiar, that I almost expect to hear a 
newsboy run round the corner, shouting " Ledger ! 
New York Ledger !" 

After spending half an hour thus, I go out. The 
men have finished their supper, and are going back 
to the yard. They choose sheltered positions, where 
stack or crib wards off the wind, and there lay down 
a little mattress of corn fodder. Two of them then 
join forces in blankets and sleep together. After look- 
ing at the men, and walking round among the horses, 
I turn toward the crib where I am to spend the night. 
There is a good bed of corn leaves spread upon the 
ground ; at the head, the crib breaks the wind, and at 
the foot, my horse stands picketed to the fence; a 
little to one side sleep the guard ; and around, ready 
saddled and bridled, stand their horses. It will soon 
be time for the second relief to go out, so I wait. 
Soon the sentinel on camp guard comes up, and pulling 
out his watch, says, "Ten o'clock." "Then call up the 
next relief." They are soon up : the men for picket 



SCOUTING. 97 

mount their horses ; the sergeant takes two and rides 
down one road — the corporal two and rides down the 
other; the new sentinel takes the place of the old 
one, who quickly crawls into his bed among the corn 
leaves. " Call me," I say to the other, " if you hear 
any alarm, and when it is time to relieve guard." 
<i Yes, sir:" and I lie down. I unclasp my belt, and 
draw my sabre and pistol close beside me. You do 
not know how much like friends they seem. The corn 
leaves feel cold and damp; the night is dark; and 
the wind wails mournfully. I draw my buffalo close, 
and wish I were warm and asleep. For a moment I 
raise my head, for up the road I hear the tramp of 
horses. It is slow and regular ; the sergeant returning 
with the men on picket. They come in, fasten their 
horses, and lie down under their blankets; and they 
and I fall asleep. 

I have not slept long, and was but just roused by 
some one laying his hand on my shoulder. It is the 
guard. I am up in an instant, and ask what is the 
matter. Nothing, it is time to relieve the picket. 
Again the sergeant and the corporal go out with the 
fresh relief, and again I lie down to sleep. At last 
the camp guard, as he calls me, says, " Four o'clock," 
instead of " Time to relieve," and then I order " Call 
up the men." 

The day is breaking as we pass out of the yard, and 
wheel round the corner of the house. Early as it is, 
Miss Kelly is up to see us off, and her pleasant little 

5 



98 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

face smiles and bows happily from the piazza. Mrs. 
Thornton, too, is np, and, as I bid her good day, she 
courteously says we had better wait for breakfast, it 
will be ready soon ; and she points to the kitchen 
chimney, from which the smoke is rising briskly. 
These Tennessian women work harder, I think, than 
ours do at home. All day long, as you ride, you will 
hear the droning spinning wheel in almost every house, 
and beside it the clack of the heavy hand loom. The 
wives and daughters of the poorer farmers do all the 
garden work, and much besides that ours hand over to 
the men. "We see black women grubbing out bushes 
in the fields, and white ones ploughing, harrowing, and 
hauling grain, with ox teams, to the mill. Those of the 
rich planters rise early, and seem busied and worried 
till night. The houses would have a thriftless look to 
our eyes, did not fine trees surround them. Trees are 
the one thing in which they show good taste. They do 
not ride much in carriages, because the roads are rough 
and carriages are scarce. Yet side-saddles are plenty ; 
and constantly on these bridle roads you will meet 
women on mules, often with a child or two perched on 
behind — or perhaps a mother carrying her baby in her 
arms, and mounted on a sober, old mare, whose little 
colt frisks merrily around. 

We have not met any though this morning, and at 
eight o'clock have travelled back to the Paris road, and 
to within four miles of Paris. Here we halt for break- 
fast. The men whose turn it is for picket, ride on a mile 



SCOUTING. 99 

or two down the road, the others dismount. The two 
who act as cooks take possession of a little out-kitchen, 
and proceed to fry the bacon and boil the coffee. I 
walk into the house and find a wretched family. The 
father of it is old and sick. He groans as I speak to 
him, and says : " Oh, our wretched country ! What 
have we done that we must suffer so ? I have always 
been for the Union, but the young men are all against 
it." His son, a young man, and evidently a rebel, 
seems equally wretched. I tell him I must feed my 
horses, and he points to the barn yard, and says there 
is corn there. Generally these people receive us w T itb 
some show of welcome, but he seems utterly indifferent. 
I ask him if he will not see that his property is not 
abused ; that perhaps there is some crib or stack he 
does not want touched ; but he shakes his head, and 
walks up and down the piazza, paying no more atten- 
tion to us. Down a deep ravine behind the house is a 
beautiful spring. Gigantic oaks rise over it, and the 
water flows from a bank of fine, white sand — so fine and 
white that it seems an alabaster fountain. Here I unroll 
my towel and make my toilet, and then climb the hill 
for breakfast, which is ready. 

This duty done, we resume the march. I am ordered 
not to enter Paris, and, therefore, turn off and strike 
across the country, to regain the direct road from Paris 
to the Holly Fork. A very blind road it is, winding 
through woods, and frequently lost. Yet here are wide 
plantations, shut in from the rest of the world, with 
their large houses, and chickens, and beehives, to all 



100 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

appearance patterns of peace and contentment. Within 
them you will find a people plain and simple in their 
manners and their lives, with many good traits, and 
some bad ones. They have an easy, quiet way with 
them of taking things as they find them, with little 
show, and less pretension. The hot blood we hear 
about hardly ever appears, and then seems the effect 
of too much tobacco and bad cooking. Indeed, I fre- 
quently think the cooking is the cause of the rebellion. 
They all look dyspeptic, and are disposed to be low- 
spirited and despondent. If you were to walk in and 
dine with them, you would find that fried pork and 
corn dodger were certainly on the table. This corn 
dodger, you must know, is a mixture of corn-meal and 
water, very nearly the size and shape of a roll of butter 
split in two and hurriedly heated, though hardly baked. 
A week ago I was at a house where there were four 
dishes of pork upon the table. To these may be added 
some fried chickens and hot biscuit, and this will be the 
unchanging bill of fare. Bread — that is what we call 
bread — I have not yet seen, and am sure it is hardly 
known. 

But dinner done, at this house I speak of, there came 
before me another little custom that may surprise some 
of my friends. The mother of the family took her pipe, 
which I have often seen before, and was not surprised at ; 
but the daughter furthest from me dived down in her 
pocket, and, after rummaging there a minute, brought 
up — 

"Oh, shame ! oh, horror ! and oh, womankind !" — 



SCOUTING. • 101 

a plug of tobacco, and then deliberately took a chew I 
The second and third followed ; and then the three 
young ladies drew np around the sacred hearth (which 
some of their cousins were lighting to protect from the 
pollution of us Yankees). and indulged in a little social 
spitting. It is embarrassing, if you are not used to it, 
to ask a country belle a question, and then have her 
turn her head suddenly the other way and spit before 
she answers. The first time we witnessed this interesting 
ceremony, a young officer of our party thought he would 
do something cool — he would ask a woman for a chew 
of tobacco. So, marching up, he said, " Miss, will you 
be so kind as to give me a chew of your tobacco?" 
The rest of us felt annoyed ; but the girl quietly, and 
as a matter of course, fumbled in her pocket and brought 
out the old plug. 

But while I am telling you this we have come out on 
the Paris road, and have turned toward the Holly Fork. 
The causeway and the bridge are unchanged, and the 
little store is still empty and open. We reach the cross- 
road, on the top of the hill, and then turn to the right. 
This leaf-covered road leads through tall woods and 
secluded farms. We see no one in the wide-spreading 
fields, nor about the distant farm-houses : "they might be 
thought deserted but for the smoke that lazily rises and 
floats away. At one little wayside cabin the owner asks 
us, in the usual phrase, to " alight." There are many 
old English words and phrases among this people — some 
odd and obsolete, and some better and more correct 



102 . SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

than our own. Thus, for our awkward "get down," 
they have " alight." Instead of saying, " How early 
did you get up this morning ?" they would say, " How 
early did you arise?" Relations, relatives, and connec- 
tions they call kin folk; and these are never well dressed, 
but well dad. A horse-path is known as a bridle-road; 
a brook as a branch, and a stream as a fork. One 
man complimented BischofT by saying he was the most 
chirk'joung fellow in the regiment ; and a young lady 
praised her own horse by telling me that Gipsy might 
run fast, but she couldn't tote double. 

But two or three miles down this road we come to a 
gate, on which three little contrabands hang, grinning. 
Very quickly they drop down and swing open the gate ; 
and very glad they are to see us, whatever missus may 
be. Within this gate is a fine open grove, and through 
it is seen a small timber house, some contraband cabins, 
and a barn or two. "We have heard of this house before. 
It belongs to a Lieutenant Reynolds of the rebel service, 
and was selected, before we started, as a good stopping- 
place. In one of the cabins we find a young mulatto 
woman, whose sad, intelligent face awakens more than 
usual respect. 

" Is Mrs. Reynolds at home?" I ask. 

" No, sir, she's at her mother's." 

" Are you alone here ?" 

" There's a man a ploughing, sir, out in the field there, 
and another girl — she's a grubbing." 

" Whose children are these \ Yours ?" 



SCOUTING. 103 

" That one's mine, sir ; tlie other two's mother is 
gone." 

« Where 2" 

" To Memphis, I s'pose, sir. They sent her off and 
sold her the time your soldiers took the fort." 

" "Will your mistress be back to-night ?" 

" No, sir, she don't stay here nights." 

" Then I must trouble you to show me where your 
provisions are. My men have eaten up all their rations 
and must have supper here." 

Two of the men come in and go to work as cooks, 
and the others are in the yard, unsaddling and cleaning 
their horses. With one of the sergeants, I stroll out to 
the road. We cross it and walk a few yards, to get a 
view of some fields beyond. As we are looking and 
talking of the pickets for the coming night, in the dis- 
tance, down the road, we hear a shout or two, and then 
a rumbling noise. 

" What is that, sergeant ?" 

" It's horses," says the sergeant ; " they are galloping 
. — and there's more than one too." 

We both spring for the gate. 

"Shall I order the men to fall in?" asks the ser- 
geant. 

"No; there are not many horses coming. Let us 
wait and see." 

In another moment appears through the trees, .a black 
boy mounted on a horse, and behind him two mules on 
a gallop. The black boy repeats his wild " Yoo, yoo — 



104 SKETCHES OF THE WAR* 

70, yoo," and when he does so the mules redouble their 
speed. As he approaches the gate> he pulls up. 

" What are you galloping for ?" I ask. " Is anything 
the matter?" 

" Oh, no, sah ; I been a ploughing all day, and am a 
comin' home." 

" What ! do those mules plough all day and gallop 
home in this way at night ?" 

" Oh, yes, sah ; they likes it. Why, it does 'em 
good." 

The boy and mules all look so bright and fresh that I 
am bound to believe it does them all good ; and as we 
thus talk the other girl comes up the road, carrying her 
heavy grubbing hoe upon her shoulder,, and with many 
startled looks at us, goes toward the house. They are 
a strange people these Southerners, full of inconsistences 
and all sorts of incongruous traits. They are not a 
musical people ; you never hear a boy whistle, or a. girl 
singing at her work ; they are not liberally educated, 
and schools and schoolmasters are few. Yet in half 
the houses you will find pianos,, and half the women 
play by note. In this house the ceiling is not plas- 
tered; the unpainted mantel is covered with broken 
bottles and old candlesticks ; the rough log Walls are 
adorned with twopenny engravings cut from almanacs 
and country papers ; all the furniture in the house is 
not worth $5 ; but there is a piano, a handsome one, 
with a showy cover. It is so with their characters: 
some are very high-minded, and some are very mean ; 



SCOUTING. 105 



»u a 

i 



and some, with a stock in trade of honor, nnite the most 
Indian-like duplicity. And here let me tell you a story 
to the point. 

As the black boy loiters round, I say to him^ "Well, 
Dick, have you seen any soldiers before this ?" 

" !No, sah," says Dick ; " but missus has." 

" Ah 1 where did she see them ?" 

"Why, thar was some of your soldiers up to Mr. 
Clokes' a spell ago, one Sunday, and missus she was 
thar." 

Now, as you will recollect, we were at Mr. Clokes' on 
a Sunday, and there were one or two visitors there then. 
The doctor and I had been very polite to everybody, 
and everybody had been very polite to us, and none 
more so than these visitors. "When we left, I compla- 
cently said to the doctor that this was much the best 
way to treat these people, it must conciliate them ; and 
the doctor had said, " Oh, certainly ; if we have not 
made them loyal, we have at least impressed them favor- 
ably." So, recollecting all this, I said to Dick : 

" "Well, Dick, what did your missus say about the 
Union soldiers ?" 

" Oh ! she said they made her so mad she could 
hardly eat." 

" Hardly eat ! Indeed — why what did they do to 
her?" 

" Oh, they didn't do nothin' to her, only she said she 
couldn't bear the sight of um ; she said they acted all 
the time just like a parcel o' niggers /" 

5* 



106 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

There's a compliment for us, thinks I. I must tell 
the doctor of that — and how favorably we impressed 
them ! 

' Supper is over. The corn dodger was far better than 
hard biscuit ; the roasted sweet potatoes were excellent ; 
anckthe lieutenant's ham a great improvement on his 
patriotism. The men have lain down in little groups 
around the house ; in front, under the large trees, burns 
the guard fire. The guard sleep behind it, and their 
horses, saddled and bridled, are picketed as usual 
beside them. The pickets have gone out, and the senti- 
nel moves slo]&ly backward and forward near the gate. 
I walk down to speak to him. As I approach, he wheels 
sharply round and challenges, " Who comes there ?" I 
give the usual answer, " Friend, with the countersign." 
" Advance, and give the countersign," and he points his 
carbine at me. I advance, and whisper the word 
" Roanoke." " The countersign is correct," says the 
sentinel ; " pass on." 

This form of challenging is always followed at night, 
even though the sentinel distinctly sees, and perfectly 
well knows the person coming. The " countersign " is 
a word, usually the name of a battle ; it is given to the 
sergeant of the guard at sunset, and he gives it to each 
sentinel as he posts him. The countersign is kept con- 
cealed from everybody but the commanding officer and 
the officers of the day and of the guard. When any 
person is to be sent through the lines, one of these 
officers may give him the countersign, and it only will 



SCOUTING. 107 

enable him to pass. If I had not Lad the countersign, 
it would have been the sentinel's duty to detain me, 
and call for the sergeant of the guard. 

" Captain," says the sentinel, " I was going to call 
you. I think I hear a wagon coming." 

We listen, and its creaking grows plainer down the 
road. We move to one side, and the wagon draws 
nearer. 

" Shall I halt them ?" says the sentinel. 

" ISTo ; I hear children's voices." 

They come on and pass close beside us ; the children 
prattle away, and the father and mother #alk of William 
somebody, who did something or other, and how Jane 
and her husband were going somewhere with the baby, 
but won't now for some unknown reason. t They do not 
know that we stand close beside them, add that within 
a few yards is a troop of horse. If they Sid, the senti- 
nel would halt them, and they would go no further 
to-night ; but as it is, we are tolerably secure this side 
of the Holly Fork, and they are so manifestly igno- 
rant of our whereabout, that I spare them the fright 
of being stopped by soldiers and kept from home ali 
night. 

" But don't let any more pass, Waldron," I say to 
the sentinel, " and keep a bright look out, and call me 
if you hear the slightest sound." 

" Yes, sir." And Waldron resumes his lonely walk. 
He cannot be thinking of himself, for as I walk away I 
hear him softly singing : 



108 SKETCHES OF THE WAK, 

" Soft be thy slumbers, 
Rude cares depart, 
Visions in numbers 

Cheer thy young heart." 

And with sweet Ellen Bayne ringing in my ears, I 
lie down beside the camp fire and fall asleep. 



A SUEPEISE. 109 

VIII. 

A SURPRISE. 

A faieee May-day never dawned than that which 
greeted us last spring in Tennessee, 

" When tho box-tree, white with blossoma, ^ 
Made the sweet May woodlands glad ;" 

And tho green hills and fresh-leaved trees Were hung 
resplendent in yellow, white and purple flowers. 

My first sergeant and myself sat after breakfast 
beneath the tent-fly, finishing our muster-rolls. The 
30th of April is a " mustering day" in the United States 
service, when all its officers and soldiers must be called 
and counted, and their names be transmitted on proper 
rolls to proper authorities. As we thus worked, an 
orderly came in, and handed me an order to take two 
days' rations, and scout toward and beyond Paris. But 
the rations were not then in camp; so after issuing 
orders to saddle up, the sergeant and I resumed our 
work, not sorry that the delay would enable us to com- 
plete our rolls. 

Suddenly, on the still, damp air of the morning, there 
came, echoing from Fort Henry, the boom of a cannon. 
We started. " What does that mean ?" A week before 
there had been a rumor one evening that Memphis was 
taken, and the colonel at the fort had sent us word that 



HO SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

if the rumor proved true, next morning he would fire 
seven guns. We had then listened, but there were no 
guns; and later news stated that Memphis was not 
taken, and could not be. 

A second gun sounded — and a man near us gave a 
" hurrah !" " You need not hurrah," said another ; 
" they've got four guns loaded down there, and are only 
firing them off." A third fired, and a fourth, and in the 
pause ^jhich followed, each said, " I wonder if there 
will be another!" A moment passed, and the fifth 
rang out loud and clear. A cheer sounded through the 
camp, and everybody came out of his tent. "What can 
it be? something has happened." "No, nothing has 
happened ; they're only practising, or playing a trick 
on us." Bang ! went the sixth. The sanguine men 
gave a loud cheer. " "Will there be another ?" " Yes !" 
" ]STo !" " I'm sure there will." " I'm sure there 
won't." A silence — the pause seems endless — surely 
■five times as long as between any others. All are 
breathless. " There ! I told you so." " I knew it was 
nothing." " Memphis can't be taken in a month — 
there's nothing to fire about. You won't hear any more 

to-day." " There's no use in waiting any " bang ! 

went the seventh, louder and clearer than all the rest 
put together. The men jumped on the logs and wagons 
and cheered wildly ; and the officers who were not on 
duty rushed for their horses, and galloped furiously 
toward the river. There were no more guns — -just 
aeven — something glorious must have happened I 



A SURPRISE. Ill 

An hour passed; those who had the fastest horses 
came back. " Was it Memphis V ' " No, not Mem- 
phis — better than Memphis — guess." No one can guess. 
" It is New Orleans — Farragut has taken New Orleans." 
Another cheer runs through the camp, and we congratu- 
late ourselves on carrying such news with us on our 
scout. 

But the rations were strangely delayed. The men 
yawned, and wished they would hurry up ; and the 
horses stood saddled round the tents, with their heads 
down, quietly dozing through the day. Late in the 
afternoon they came, and, with them, an order to send 
a larger party, and for me to report to our major for 
orders. I did so. 

" When will your squadron be ready ?" asked the 
major. 

" It is ready now." 

" Well then you may start at daybreak ; I will 
follow with the others at nine, and join you at Paris in 
the afternoon." 

A new tent had arrived that day from St. Louis, to 
take the place of my old and leaky one ; and BischofF 
had amused himself, during the afternoon, by pitching 
it, little thinking that I was to sleep in it just one night. 
It felt like having a new house, and its fresh, snowy 
walls, the perfection of neatness. 

There were men stirring long before daylight, and 
with the first grey streaks of dawn, we mounted. Our 
road was a short cut, leading by narrow, winding ways, 



112 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

through tall woods, up little streams, and over high 
hills. In the cool calm of the morning, it was a picture 
of peace and safety ; and no soldiers ever moved more 
joyously than we, or seemed less likely to be fugitives 
and prisoners before the march should be done. 

Three miles from camp we halted at a sparkling 
brook to adjust saddles and water horses. The squad- 
ron was marching in three divisions, with an interval 
of a hundred yards between them. The first came up, 
halted and dismounted ; then the second, and the third, 
so quietly and orderly, that I felt a satisfaction I had 
never felt before. 

At last we came to Paris. Its little square was green, 
and its streets were prettier than in the gloom of that 
March morning. We picketed our horses on the Court 
House fence, and strolled around. Everybody agreed 
in saying that our old acquaintances, 'King's cavalry, 
had gone to Corinth, and that the country round us was 
cleared of guerrillas. Beauregard was calling in all his 
troops then, and this seemed probable. But one of the 
first questions put to me was, "When will the major 
and the rest of the party be here ?" The order had been 
given the night before ; I had marched at daybreak ; 
no one had passed us on the road. " How did this 
information reach them ?" I asked ; " who could have 
brought it ?" 

The main body of our detachment arrived during the 
afternoon, and I was ordered with my squadron to the 
farm of a Mrs. Ayres, some three miles off. I had heard 



A SURPRISE. 113 

nothing of Mrs. Ayres, except that she was " a promi- 
nent secessionist," and quite wealthy ; and three months' 
active cavalry service had quite accustomed me to riding 
into people's houses, and taking possession for the use 
of the Government. Yet I was rather taken aback, 
when a lady with grey hair and widow's weeds came 
out, as I rode up. I said that I regretted to intrude, 
but that I was ordered to stop there ; and she said that 
it was very unpleasant; she and her daughter were 
alone, no gentleman in the house, and she wished we 
would go somewhere else. I explained that no one 
would come in the house or be guilty of any rudeness, 
and that she might feel perfectly safe. But she reite- 
rated her request, and went on : "I am a secessionist, 
sir ; I am opposed to the Union. I scorn to deny my 
principles. Of course you will do as you choose, sir. I 
am a woman, and unprotected, and you have a company 
of soldiers; I can offer no resistance," etc., etc. I 
answered that I admired her sincerity, and cut the 
argument short by asking in which yard she preferred 
my putting the horses, and from which stacks we should 
get forage. There were woods to the right of, the 
house ; the men filed into them, and in a few minutes 
fires were lighted, horses picketed, and we were 
bivouacked for the night. 

An hour or two elapsed, and I received a message 
that Mrs. Ayres wished to see me. I went in — the 
house was large and handsomely furnished, and she was 
evidently far superior in intelligence, education, and 



114 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

position, to the simple country people among whom we 
had hitherto been thrown. I afterwards learnt that 
one son was then at Bichmond, a member of the Con- 
federate Government, and another with Beauregard, at 
Corinth. I began the conversation by hoping that she 
had recovered from her alarm. She said, " Oh, 
entirely," and that she had expected the officers in the 
house to tea, and that she had beds enough for them. 
I replied that I had promised that no one should 
intrude, and that I intended my promise to apply to 
myself as well as to my men. Mrs. Ayres hastened to 
say that it was no intrusion ; that I must at least stay 
and spend the evening ; she really could not allow me 
to go out in the dark and cold, while she had house- 
room to offer. " My daughter plays," she said ; " per- 
haps you like music." I said that I liked music exceed- 
ingly, and should be most happy to hear some, and as I 
was finishing my civil speech, Miss Ayres came in. 
She was a pretty girl of seventeen, and gave me an icy 
bow that said I was there by military power, and was no 
guest of hers. " Mary," said her mother, " Captain N. 
wishes to hear some music." The young lady gave 
another icy bow. There was a little black girl curled 
up in a corner near the fire. " Bell," said Miss Ayres, 
" carry the candles into the other room." The little 
black girl uncurled herself, and seizing the candles, 
marched into the other room. There she placed 
the candles on the piano, and immediately popped 
under it and curled herself up again on the floor. 



A STJEPEISE. 115 

I moved round, and took my position at one end of 
the piano, as an admiring listener should. It was a 
handsome instrument, and seemed like a friend, for I 
read on its plate, "¥m. Hall & Sons, New York." It 
had come from New York, and so had I. Miss Ay res 
took her music-book, and I waited for her to begin. 
She partly opened the book, then stopped, and looking 
deliberately at me, said, " "Well, sir, what must I play ?" 
Had she slapped me in the face I should not- have been 
more astounded. It was evident that she was in the 
same frame of mind her mother had been in at the 
gate. But I had been so particularly civil that this cut 
was too unexpected. I felt my color rise, but kept my 
temper down, and inwardly resolved that her little 
ladyship should take this back before our acquaintance 
ended ; so I answered, almost sweetly, that I would 
leave that to Miss Ay res' better taste ! We had a little 
contest then, she trying to make me order something, 
and I trying to make her select the piece. It was a 
drawn game, and ended in her suggesting a couple of 
pieces, and my saying, " Either of them." 

An hour passed very agreeably, and when I arose to 
go, all coolness had entirely vanished, and the invita- 
tion to stay was really cordial. But it was an inflexible 
rule with me, when on these expeditions, to sleep 
beside my guard, so I declined ; and, after thanking 
them, went out. 

The next clay came in brightly ; but as I was pre- 
paring to resume our march, there came a message 



116 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

from the major, saying we would not leave till after- 
noon. The day wore wearily away; and toward evening 
there came a second message, saying we should not 
start till eight the next morning. Then a feeling of 
uneasiness came over me. This long delay I did not 
like. The sky, too, became overcast, and a heavy 
storm soon gathered over head. I made our little 
arrangements for the night; the horses were moved 
under cover; the men found refuge in a barn; and a 
little carriage house was taken for our guard tent. I 
received another invitation to the house, and paid 
another visit more agreeable than the first. As I came 
out, the rain was coming down soakingly. I had put 
out additional pickets, and used the additional precau- 
tion of going out myself with the relief. The first time 
I did so, it came near terminating my expedition. It 
was fearfully dark, and the horses had almost to feel 
their way. I knew we should find the picket about a 
mile from the house, where the woods ended on the 
brow of a hill. I had selected the place, because there 
they would be hidden by the trees, yet would have a 
clear view, on an ordinary night, through the fields 
beyond. I knew, too, the angle of the fence they were 
to be in, and expected to find them with little trouble. 
We approached the spot, but were not challenged, and 
I began to wonder if anything was the matter. "We 
went a few steps farther, and I found we had passed 
the woods and were descending the hill. Still no chal- 
lenge. It would seem the simplest thing in the world 



A StTEPEISE. 11 7 

to call out, but this could not be done — here they must 
challenge us. Suddenly, close behind us, and in a very 
startled tone, came " Who comes there ?" and with it 
the "click," "click" of a pistol. I answered just in 
time ; for* in the darkness, and amid the beating of the 
storm, we had passed them unseen and unheard, and 
they thought that we were a party approaching from 
the opposite direction, and, in another moment, would 
have fired. 

Day came at last — a drizzly, rainy day — and we set 
out for Como. The country was new to us, and much 
better than we had yet seen in Tennessee. There were 
groups of contrabands at every house, reminding us 
that it was Sunday; and we passed a little church, 
whose congregation was within, their saddled horses 
tied around the building. "We all remarked that the 
people seemed more cheerful than any we had seen ; 
and soon a man we met took off his hat, and said, 
" The Union, the Constitution, and the Enforcement of 
the Laws ;"' yet we had seen so little patriotism in Ten- 
nessee that we doubted this. At length we reached 
Como, and stopped in the barnyards of a leading 
secessionist. Hardly had we dismounted, when a large, 
good looking man followed us into the yard, and said, 
" I'm truly glad to see you, gentlemen, you've come 
at just the right time." He then introduced himself 
to me as Mr. Hurt, of Como ; and said that his house 
was a quarter of a mile back — he had seen us pass — 
he had run after us — he was a Union citizen — all must 



118 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

go back and dine with him — his wife had seen ns, and 
was actually getting dinner ready. 

I walked back with Mr. Hurt to his house. His 
wife I found a pleasing lady-like woman, and she 
repeated the invitation to bring all. I said I thought 
bringing fifty men into a private house to dinner, and 
that on Sunday, was a little too much ; but she said 
quite earnestly that she could do nothing better on 
Sunday than care for Union soldiers. Soon one man, 
and then another, came in, whose looks more than their 
words assured us of a warm and living patriotism to 
which we had long been strangers. From them I 
learnt that there were many more hiding in the sur- 
rounding woods, and that a party of rebel citizens had 
recently been amusing themselves by arresting Union 
men, and sending them off to Memphis. I determined 
that so far as I was concerned, this fun should stop ; 
and when the major, with the main body, arrived, 
I submitted my plan to him, which he approved, and 
ordered me to execute. 

My plan was very simple — to take twenty-five of my 
best mounted men, and stay behind, ostensibly as a rear 
guard ; to start about dark, as if to follow the major ; 
but, in reality, to turn off on the first cross-road, and 
arrest the parties during the night, rejoining the major 
in the morning. 

Accordingly, after dinner I strolled up to where the 
men were, and said, carelessly, to the first-sergeant, that 
one-half of us were to stay as rear guard, and he had 



A SUErRISE. 119 

better pick out those who had the freshest horses — there 
might be a good deal of riding to do. In a little while 
the detachment started, leaving me with my party, little 
thinking how soon we were to be a rear guard in 
reality. As the last of the column vanished down the 
road, my anxiety of the previous evening returned, and 
I sent a vidette up the Caledonia road. It was then 
three, and we should not start till six ; so I went into 
the barn and lay down, hoping to have a little sleep to 
make up for the three previous nights. But I was soon 
roused to see a Union man, whose brother had been 
arrested, and then to see another who was to act as 
guide ; and then Mr. Hurt came in to insist on my 
going back to his house and sleeping there ; so I rose 
and walked back. At the house we found a young 
man, a cousin of Mrs. Hurt, who had heard of our arrival 
and ventured in from the woods. We sat down upon 
the piazza and fell into an interesting conversation. 
Three of her brothers were in the Southern army — " as 
good Union men as you," she said, " but forced in." 
Their little boy was named Emerson Etheridge, after 
the Tennessee member of Congress, who has stood so 
firmly for the Union ; and on the large tree in the yard 
was hoisted the last flag that had waved in "Western 
Tennessee. 

As we thus talked, a little man was seen coming up 
the road, and thereupon the whole family left me and 
rushed out to meet him. They came back laughing, 
shaking hands, and asking questions, while the little 



120 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

man both laughed and cried, and said, " Oh, my dear 
friends, you do not know what sufferings I have been 
through since I left you !" He was their Yankee school- 
master. For ten years he had lived quietly there, but 
a year before had been ordered off, and narrowly 
escaped being hung. He had left a child behind, and 
now, hearing the country was quiet, had ventured back 
to see his old friends and his child. 

The afternoon glided away, and it was nearly six. 
Mrs. Hurt had left us to hasten tea, but we still sat on 
the piazza, talking as before. Suddenly Mr. Hurt sprang 
up and said, " What are those men ?" I looked and 
saw my vidette coming in between two countrymen: 
whether they were bringing him, or he them, seemed 
doubtful. I seized my sabre and pistol, and- walked to 
the gate. 

u There is bad news, captain," said the man. 

"What is it V 9 

"These men say there are three thousand rebel 
cavalry at Caledonia." 

I suppose I looked incredulous, for one of the men 
said, very earnestly, " It's so, sir. Ask Mr. Hurt ; he 
knows me." 

" He's a good man," said Mr. Hurt ; " but I don't 
believe three thousand any more than you do." 

" It's really so !" cried the man with great earnest- 
ness. " Mr. Ashby saw them, and sent us over here to 
tell you, and the other Union people ; and we have run 
our horses all the way across." 



A SUEPRISE, 121 

I glanced at the horses : they were covered with foam 
and mud. I looked at Mr. Hurt : his face had suddenly 
grown very serious. 

" Did Edward Ashby see them himself j" he asked, 
in a low tone. 

"Yes!" 

" And he told you himself?" 

"Yes!" 

" Then, captain," he said, turning to me, " it is so." 

There was a moment of dreary silence. 

" How long were they passing Mr. Ashby's ?" I 
asked. 

"Three hours." 

" Which way were they going?" 

" Toward Paris." 

" How far is it from Caledonia to Paris ?" 

" Twelve miles." 

I knew that three thousand was a reasonable esti- 
mate. I also knew they must have heard of our where- 
about, and that a party might be coming up the road 
at any moment ; yet I ventured one more question : 

" What troops did they say they were f 

" Jeff. Thompson's." 

" Jeff. Thompson's ! That is very strange. Where 
did they say they were going ?" 

"They said they'd come for provisions and Union 
men." 

This answer completed the distress of those around 
me. The cousin looked toward the woods; the little 

6 



122 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

schoolmaster asked if he might not stay with his child 
just this one night? Mr. Hurt said that he meant to 
risk it till morning, while his wife said that he must fly 
at once : they might burn the house, but they would not 
hurt women and children, and she was not afraid. I 
shook hands hastily with them, and hoped that we 
might meet again. I told my vidette to gallop up the 
road and tell the men to mount, but to say not a word 
of the reason why. And then I followed as rapidly as 1 
could, and with many glances over my shoulder, won- 
dering that the enemy's advance was not already irpon 
us. It was not half a mile to the barnyards, but the 
way seemed endless, until a turn in the road showed 
me the men mounting, and Bischoff coming to meet me 
with my horse. In a moment more I was mounted, 
and had sent a messenger, on a gallop, to the major, 
while the rest of us followed at a less rapid gait. 

Arriving at Irving's farm, where the main body had 
halted for the night, I found all as quiet as though 
nothing could happen. The horses were unsaddled, the 
men reposing, and the major had gone to a farm a mile 
distant. I ordered my own men to saddle up, and 
galloped after him. "We rode back to Irving's, and held 
a consultation with the other officers, the result of which 
was that he took an escort and went down the road to 
see Mr. Hurt ; while I was to wait till ten o'clock, and, 
if he did not return by that time, to retreat northwardly 
to the little town of Dresden. 

I went into the house, and talked to the ladies of the 



A SURPRISE. 123 

family. They were wealthy secessionists, and it was 
advisable to conceal, so far as possible, our movements. 
As ten o'clock approached, I slipped out, and ordered 
the men to mount and be perfectly still. Then, return- 
ing, I said to the ladies, that they must not feel alarmed 
if they heard our pickets and guards during the night,- 
and, bidding them good evening, went out. I saw, 
dimly, the men drawn up in line. 

" Bischoff," I called, in a suppressed tone, " where are 
,you ?" 

"Here, captain," said Bischoff, close beside me, as 
he held my horse under a shadowy tree. 

I mounted — gave some instructions to the other cap- 
tains — the men wheeled into column — and We were 
moving slowly and silently toward Dresden. 

The rain, which had stopped during the afternoon, 
began again. The road plunged down into dense 
woods, and the darkness was profound. Some refugees, 
mounted on mules, and wrapped in their home-spun 
blankets, joined us — picturesque, but sad exiles, in keep- 
ing with the wild and stormy night. They were our 
guides, and but for them we could not have found our 
way through the hidden road. 

" Well, quartermaster," I said to the young officer 
who rode beside me, " this is our first retreat." 

" Yes," he answered ; " and a most appropriate night 
for a first retreat." 

It was not improbable that we should be attacked in 
the rear ; and not improbable that a party had been 



124: SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

sent round to intercept us in front; and every sound 
seemed the signal for an affray. Occasionally the 
wagons became snagged, and word would be passed up 
the column ; a halt would be ordered ; men would dis- 
mount, feel for the wagon, and disentangle it from 
some tree or stump ; word would be passed up again, 
and we would resume our march. Thus, about three in 
the morning, we approached Dresden, when I unex- 
•pectedly ran upon our advance guard standing still. I 
quickly ordered a halt and demanded what was the 
matter. A horse, they said, had disappeared in the 
middle of the road ; they could not even find him. I 
called for matches, and several men tried to strike a 
light ; but the rain had soaked through everything. I 
recollected a little tin box of wax tapers in my great 
coat pocket, and by dint of striking one of these under 
my cape, obtained a light. The little flickering ray 
disclosed the feet of the horse, sticking up in the air, 
his body hidden in a narrow gully which the rain had 
washed across the road. I dismounted six men to try 
and pull him out, and with the rest went on. Here the 
major overtook us. He had gone back, but had learned 
nothing of the enemy. In a few minutes we entered 
Dresden. Pickets were posted on the different roads, 
the horses were crowded into some barns, and then, 
with the men, I crawled up into the hay-loft, and, 
soaking wet, lay down for an hour or two on the 
soft hay. 
We waited all the morning, and about one in the 



A SURPRISE. 125 

afternoon started, still moving northwardly toward 
Paducah. The road was hard and good ; the sun came 
out, drying our wet clothes, and everything seemed 
promising and pleasant. As we passed the first house, 
the family appeared in front of the door, and waved a 
little flag. It was the first flag we had seen in Ten- 
nessee. My squadron, which led the column, broke 
into rapturous applause as they caught sight of the 
starry emblem ; and as each of the others came up, 
wondering what could have caused the commotion, 
they repeated the cheers. A cavalcade of Union men 
accompanied us, and as we approached their homes, 
they would dash ahead and notify their families that 
we were coming. At every house the inmates appeared, 
waving handkerchiefs and clapping hands ; and at several 
the long hidden flag was brought out to help in wel- 
coming " the Union soldiers," who cheered the flag 
whenever it was displayed. Thus our march went on, 
more like a gay, triumphal procession than a retreat. 
We stopped at a little house, and a venerable matron, 
with her grand-daughter, came to the gate and wel- 
comed us. The old lady shook hands with all who were 
near, and solemnly hoped that God would be with us ; 
and the younger one laughed and cried. She hoped, 
she said, that we would not think her bold or crazy ; 
but she felt as if we were friends, and it was the first 
time she had been safe for months. Her husband and 
father were then hiding in the woods from guerrillas. 
She had two brothers in the rebel* army, and, she 



126 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

added, with a bitter emphasis I cannot describe, that 
they were rebels, and we might capture them or kill 
them ; but she wished we would kill them. 

We went on and descended into the valley of the 
Obion. The sun was sinking in the west, as our 
column wound through the great trees and came upon 
Lockridge Mill. On the right, I saw a large white 
house surrounded by a garden ; on the left a barn yard 
with an eight-rail fence ; in front and beyond us, the 
Obion and the mill. 

" We will stay here to-night," said the major. 

"Left into line. Halt. Be prepared to leave at a 
moment's notice," I said to my men, " and to saddle up 
in the dark. Break ranks." 

The men scattered through the yard, picketing their 
horses.- The second squadron picketed theirs on the 
outside of the yard, and the third went back to the 
farms on the edge of the valley, to act as a rear 
guard, 

" Where will you put our horses, Bischoff?" 

" At this tree in- the yard, captain," said Bischoff. 

"Yery well; I must see if there are any pickets 
wanted between us and the rear guard.". And I turned 
my horse and rode slowly back. 

It was a noble valley, smooth as a floor, and covered 
with huge oaks and elms. I came to the third squad- 
ron ; they had dismounted ; their horses were tied to the 
fences ; their lieutenant had gone out with their pickets ; 
and their captain came up and laughingly said he had 



A SURPRISE. 127 

taken a prisoner, and introduced me to a lieutenant of 
an Illinois regiment, who had just ridden in. He was 
a very handsome and intelligent young man, and 
informed us that he was a Tennessian, and had come to 
see if recruits could not be found there. He seemed 
greatly elated at being back in his own State, and as 
we rode along, I remarked to myself how hopeful and 
happy he was. We arrived at the house and dis- 
mounted ; I gave my horse to one of the men, and went 
in to introduce Mr. Crawford to the major. Him we 
found in an upper room. He had taken off his jacket 
and was seated, comfortably smoking. I introduced the 
lieutenant, and then went out, intending to post the 
pickets in front. The men were on some logs opposite 
the house, finishing their supper ; the sun had set, and 
the light was fading and growing hazy amid the great 
trees. 

I walked across the little garden, and laid my hand 
on the gate. As I did so, I heard a yell toward the 
rear; I turned quickly, and far up among the trees I 
saw three of the rear guard. Their horses were on a 
gallop ; they waved their caps wildly, and shouted 
something which sounded like "saddle up." At the 
first glance I thought they were messengers ; but, at the 
second, I saw running beside them a horse with an 
empty saddle. I knew what that meant. 

" Saddle up, and fall in," I shouted to the men ; 
" and you men in the house call the major ; tell him we 
are attacked." 



128 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

I looked for my horse, but he had disappeared. I 
rushed to the barnyard, and there saw the man who 
had held him. 

" Hamelder," I cried, " what have you done with my 
horse?" 

" Bischoff took him, captain." 

I hurried to the tree. Bischoff, knowing the horse 
would have a night's work, had seized on the moment 
of my going into the house to unsaddle and rub him ofL 
But Bischoff stood faithful at hi&.post in the confusion;: 
^.vhile every other man was hurrying for his own horse,. 
Bischoff was saddling mine. As I came up, he held the 
horse and stirrup for me to mount as coolly as though 
we were at a parade. 

" Never mind this," I cried, " I can mount without 
this nonsense ; saddle your own horse and be quick — 
be quick." But my buffalo, rolled up as it had been 
unbuckled from the saddle, lay on the ground, and 
Bischoff stooped for it. "Throw it away," I cried, 
" saddle your horse and come out of this yard, or 
you're lost." 

I turned ; all of the squadron had gone out — I was the 
last; and as my horse dashed over the broken fence, 
Bischoff was left alone. 

My men were in line, but a disorderly stream of 
flying, men and riderless horses was pouring past. I 
looked round for the major, but he was not in sight, 
and I found myself the ranking officer there. " I must 
act, it is no time to wait for orders*" I said. I looked 



A SURPRISE. 129 

up the valley, and saw the head of the rebel column. 
They were coming on a gallop, their shot guns and 
rifles blazed away, and their wild yells were louder 
than the volleys they fired. Between us were the last 
of the rear guard and the horses of those who had 
fallen, " wild and disorderly." I turned the other way, 
and saw the river and the bridge. " We must check 
their advance," I thought, " and then cross the river 
and tear up the bridge; it is our only hope. I will 
charge them." I touched my good horse as I drew my 
sabre, and he flew round. I was giving the orders, 
" Draw sabre. By platoons. Left wheel," and the 
squadron was executing them, when the men of the 
second squadron rushed franticly round the barnyard 
fence and into my line. In an instant all was confusion. 
There was no time to restore order, the rebels were not 
the width of a city block distant, and their buck shot 
flew thickly, wounding men and horses, while there 
was the thundering sound of cavalry at full speed. I 
still had a hope of the bridge. In another instant they 
would be u£)on us. " About," I cried, " gallop and 
form across the bridge." As we went by the yard, 
Bischolf had not come out. " He has sacrificed himself 
for me," I said ; " but I cannot leave my command to 
save him, though he were my brother." 

Across the narrow bridge we went safely, though it 
swayed and trembled under the tramp of galloping 
horses. As the men wheeled and reformed, I moved to 
the right and looked back. Hitherto I had seen but 

6* 



130 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

the head of their column, and had formed no idea of its 
strength. Now I saw, far up the valley, a solid 
unbroken column of perhaps a thousand men. Between 
them and the bridge were a few men, and many flying 
horses, which ran madly. The enemy were armed with 
guns, and my men had but sabres and pistols. The 
captain of the second squadron had been at the bridge, 
trying vainly to rally his men ; but they had gone, and 
mine were the only ones left. ."All is lost now," I 
said ; " I will not keep my men here to be sacrificed for 
these runaways." I gave the order, and we were gal- 
loping down the valley, the pursuing foe close upon us. 
But, to return to BischofY. He rode that day a fiery, 
little, black horse, that became nearly frantic as he 
heard the rushing sound of the enemy's horses. Bis- 
chofT threw the saddle on him, and as he buckled the 
girth, the rebels appeared opposite the gate. There 
was no time to waste then. Quick as lightning he 
drew out his knife, and cutting the reins by which the 
horse was tied, swung himself into the saddle. The 
little horse wheeled. By cutting the reins, BischofT had 
lost all control of him, but he seemed to know precisely 
what was needed. Instead of going to. the gate, he 
turned and rushed at the fence. It was higher than 
himself, and BischofT thought they were lost ; but the 
little horse gave a tremendous bound, and came bravely 
over. They were now neck and neck with the rebels ; 
it was a race to the bridge. The little horse won, and 
dashed over ahead of their foremost horses. But ho 



A SURPRISE. 131 

was only ahead — there were not six feet between them, 
and he crossed amid a shower of balls, and almost 
hidden by the smoke of their rifles. BischofF lay flat 
on the saddle, and trusted everything to the horse. The 
bridge crossed, he soon widened the gap, and in a few 
minutes bore BischofF triumphantly among his friends. 

It was a fearful ride across that valley. The road, 
level and straight, did not shelter us from the enemy. 
Trees had fallen across it, and there were deep bog 
holes, into which horses plunged and fell. As you rode, 
you came upon a man whose horse had fallen in leaping 
a tree, or mired in struggling through a mud hole. 
Here was one who had risen, and was trying to escape 
to the neighboring woods, and there another, who could 
not extricate himself from his fallen horse. As I looked 
back and watched the fate of those I knew, I saw the 
first of the enemy, as they came up, fire upon our pros- 
trate men. It looked as though no quarter was given. 
Before I had ridden far, I came upon the captain of the 
second squadron standing in the road. He had been 
wounded and unhorsed. I endeavored to pull up and 
take him behind me ; but my horse, excited and frac- 
tious, reared and plunged so that I could not stop. I 
called to the captain to take another horse, led by one 
of the men. He did so, but in a few moments was 
thrown, and before he could rise, found himself sur- 
rounded and a prisoner. 

At length we emerged from this, to us dark vale, and 
felt our horses tread firm ground. We had gained a 



132 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

little on the enemy, and were just beyond the reach of 
their guns. I got the men formed once more into 
column, and the retreat, though still at a gallop, became 
orderly. I asked after the other officers ; two had 
escaped and were with us ; three were captured, and the 
major had been shot near the bridge, falling beside one 
of my men. I was therefore again in command, and 
had to determine speedily on a plan. 

There had been with us a farmer, named Gibbs, 
mounted on a white mule, which ran like a deer, 
Gibbs was perfectly cool, and when we came out of the 
valley, he had pulled out a plug of tobacco and taken a 
customary bite, with the remark that he guessed we 
were all right now. I asked Gibbs if he knew the road 
to Hickman, on the Mississippi. To which he replied : 
" Oh, yes." " Then come with me," I said, " and lead 
us there ;" and I took him to the head of the column. 
Telling the sergeant, who led, to follow Gibbs, I fell out 
and began to drop back to the rear. Unfortunately, 
the white mule would not lead, and in a few moments 
Gibbs rejoined me. I then took a couple of young 
men, who were also escaping with us, up to the head, 
and giving them the same directions, again fell back. 
Unluckily, excited and riding on a gallop by moonlight, 
they passed the Hickman, and continued on the Paducah 
road. 

Gibbs fell out of the column, and rejoined me,, as it 
passed. I told him he had better not run this unneces- 
sary risk ; but he said he had been offered $200 for his 



A SURPRISE. 133 

mule, and would risk anything with it. Bischoff also 
fell out, and we three rode at the rear. We did not 
ride so long. Suddenly from the bushes and woods on 
the side of the road, there was a flash; and bang! bang ! 
came the fire of our hidden foes. In an instant every 
horse was at full speed, rushing by. My own gave a 
wild bound. Poor Tennessee ! he had been acting 
nobly from the first, and I thought he was only excited 
by the firing. My attention was chiefly upon the men, 
but as I gathered up the curb-rein to check him, I 
noticed that it was gone on the side next to the firing. 
Still I did not think he had been hit. But he put his 
head down, and rushed between Gibbs and Bischoff. 
They caught him by the bridle, but in a moment he had 
dragged them half off their saddles. I told them to let 
go, and he dashed forward, striking madly against the 
horse in front. The concussion sent us over to the 
ditch, but he Bid not stop. With his head down, and 
running straight as an arrow, he flew by the entire 
column. I returned my sabre to the scabbard, and 
winding the bridle-rein round my wrists, made every 
effort to stop him. It was in vain. I exerted all my 
strength; I used all the art I was master of, or that 
Mr. Rarey had taught ; I drew his head from side to 
side, till his mouth touched the stirrups ; but he went 
on, on, on at the same furious pace. The road lay 
through thick woods and down a series of steep hills. 
On one of these it turned. The horse refused to follow 
its windings, and kept straight on. It was like a loco- 



134 SKETCHES OF THE WAB. 

motive rushing through the woods. There were two 
trees before me, close together. On he went, dashing 
between them. He struck against one and reeled, but 
did not fall. Beyond, and on the steepest of the hill, lay 
a fallen tree. His head was down almost to his knees, 
and I knew he could not see. I made a great, a last 
effort to raise him. It failed — the tree seemed under 
me — there was a crash — a blow — and I lay on the 
ground, the horse struggling on top of me. 

I tried, vainly, to rise and remount; but my right 
arm hung useless, and I felt dizzy and weak, while 
my good horse still struggled on the ground. Yet the 
enemy were coming. I dragged myself quickly down 
the bank, at the foot of which ran a little stream. As I 
reached it, I heard .the gallop of horses on the hill above 
me. " My sabre," I said, " must not fall into their 
hands." I unbuckled it quickly, and gave it a last 
look. It was the parting gift of my best friends, and 
had been my constant companion by day and by night. 
I could not bear to part with it thus. For an instant I 
hesitated. " Perhaps they will not see me," I said ; 
" but no, the risk is too great ; whatever happens to me, 
they shall not have the sabre." A log lay across the 
brook. I leaned forward, and under its shadow, threw 
the sabre in. It splashed in the dark water and was 
gone. " Shall I throw my pistol after it ?" No ! it 
will be but a pistol more for the Confederacy. Here 
they come." I stretched myself close beside the bank, 
and the party of horsemen galloped by. 



THE ESCAPE. 135 

IX. 

THE ESCAPE. 

I was now alone in the quiet woods. The sounds of 
trampling horses had died away, and the little rill beside 
me trickled peacefully in the still night. I reached 
my hand down, and, filling my glove with water, poured 
it over my face. It was cool and refreshing, and in 
a few moments I was able to rise. I looked at the 
stream — at the log, beneath which lay my sabre — and at 
the tree, beneath which lay my horse ; and then, making 
an effort, I stepped upon the log, and crossed into the 
thick brushwood on the other side. But a few steps 
were taken when I was glad to sit down upon a fallen 
tree. I felt stunned and faint, yet hoped I was gathering 
strength and would soon be able to go on. As I was 
thus seated the question arose, What should I do ? Fort 
Henry, I knew, was. eastward of me. Should I go there ? 
— it was but thirty -five or forty miles. ~No I the coun- 
try between must be swarming with rebels. Should 
I go to Paducah ? It was sixty miles northward, and 
the enemy would, doubtless, follow in that direction. 
Should I remain hidden in the woods, trusting to their 
leaving in a few days ? Should I crawl to some barn or 
stack, and take the chance of their not searching it? 
Would my strength hold out if I went on ? and would 



136 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

the fractured bone, that I felt under my coat, and the 
growing pain in my side, do without the surgeon's care 
till I could make my way out % 

At length I decided on my course : I would go north- 
ward till daylight, and thus be some miles ahead ; then 
I would turn eastward, and thus place myself on one 
side of their probable line of march. During the next 
day I hoped to meet a contraband, and, obtaining infor- 
mation, then decide whether to continue eastward, 
toward Fort Henry, or turn northward again to 
Paducah. 

Thus deciding, I took out my handkerchief and tied 
my pistol round my waist, and then rose from the tree to 
begin my journey. The broken ribs made it painful to 
breathe, and my right arm had to be supported constantly 
by my left. Aronnd me, all was beautiful and serene. 
The calm moon shone, in peaceful contrast with the excit- 
ing scene I had lately witnessed, and lighted my steps and 
pointed my way. No sound disturbed the stillness of 
the woods, save that from a distant farm there came the 
jingle of a cow-bell. It was in the direction I wished 
to go, and toward it I slowly made my way. A friend 
had bronght me down the April number of the "Atlan- 
tic" before leaving camp, and I had read Whittier's 
" Mountain Pictures." A line of it came to my mind : 

" The tinkling curfew of the cow-bell rung ;" 

and I wondered whether any other reader would ever 
thus apply it. ~ 



THE ESCAPE. 137 

I had to walk slowly through the silvery-lighted 
woods ; but at last drew near the ringing noise, and 
climbed the hill, on the top of which were the farm and 
barnyard of the cows. A road ran along the brow of 
the hill, and on the other side of it appeared some wide 
fields. To the left was a clump of apple-trees, and the 
hoarse bark of a dog told me they covered a house. I 
stopped a few moments to rest and listen, and then 
stepped cautiously into the road. On the opposite side 
was a large tree, and in its shadow I tried to climb the 
high rail fence. I was weaker than I had supposed. 
My limbs refused at first to lift my weight, and my one 
arm could not keep me from swinging round against the 
fence. Twice I thought I must give it up ; but, after 
several efforts, I mounted it, and then, holding my 
breath, I let myself drop down on the other side. 

Across the wide field there was another road. I had 
not gone far when I heard a noise in the woods, and, 
fearing it might be a picket of the enemy, I laid down 
beside the fence. The moon was then near the horizon, 
and I deemed it most prudent to wait till it had set. 

Soon after this I came upon some cows, and these I 
drove before me. I thought that if there should be a 
picket in the road the cows would turn off, and there 
would be less likelihood of my being seen or heard. 
After going, I should think, a mile, we came to a broad 
road. This the cows crossed ; and I was about follow- 
ing, when a large dog came from a house beyond, and, 
after barking furiously at the cows, came toward me. 



138 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

I took my pistol out, and was prepared to fire, when 
the dog stopped barking. It was well for me he did so, 
for within a few yards I heard horses coming up the 
road. I looked, and saw the outline of some horsemen. 
There was no time to fly. I sank quietly down upon 
the ground, and lay still. The horsemen came on. 
They seemed a picket. One rode in front, who seemed a 
sergeant, and the others followed. They passed close by 
me — so close, I could hear the jingling of their spurs. 

When they had passed I rose, and determined that 
thereafter I would not go upon any road or cross any 
field, or spare any pains. I entered the woods. They 
were now thick, with underbrush, and I had not the 
moon to guide me. Frequently I had wanted the North 
star on night marches, but it had always been hidden 
by clouds. Now, however, on this night, when I needed 
it above all others, it shone out beautiful and bright. 
As I watched it, it seemed an old friend, reappearing to 
aid me, and again and again as I emerged from some 
thick underwood, and turned toward its constant blaze, 
I felt as if it were the companion of my flight. 
But even with its aid, I found great difficulty in keeping 
upon my course. The trees would hide it, and I had to 
keep my eyes on my path, or strained on suspicious, 
objects. The only plan was, to take some distant hill 
in the right direction, and on reaching it, to look for 
another, and make toward it. Yet fallen trees and deep 
hollows often made me change my course, and some- 
times made me lose it, so that I had to research the sky, 



THE ESCAPE. 139 

and refind the star before I could go on. As I could 
not use my hands, I was forced to push my way through 
the brush with my left shoulder. I had lost my hat, 
too, in the fall, and my hair often caught in the 
branches. So my progress was slow and wearisome, 
with no help around me, but with hope before. 

I should think it was about three o'clock in the morn- 
ing, when, from the top of a little hill, there appeared 
just before me the smoking, smouldering fires of a camp. 
I knew if it were a camp, that I was within the lines. 
I turned, therefore, and made my way back as a bur- 
glar might glide through a house — sliding my feet along 
the ground, lest I should tread upon some crackling 
branch — choosing the thickest wood and the darkest 
shade. About an hour later, I saw, as I 'thought, some 
tents, but knew it was most improbable there should be 
any there ; so I stopped to examine, and then saw they 
were but the grey light of morning breaking through 
the trees. It was a welcome sight ; yet I confess the 
night had not seemed long, and that I was surprised to 
find the morning come. 

I now changed my course, and turned toward the 
east. The woods changed too. There were small trees, 
with little underbrush, and the ground was a smooth, 
descending plain. I kept on over this for miles. The 
sky brightened ; the sun rose, and mounted higher and 
higher. I heard the barking of dogs, the lowing of 
cattle, and occasionally the voices of men and children. 
I came, too, upon roads, and these had to be crossed 



140 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

with great caution, coming out step by step, looking 
carefully up and down, listening anxiously, and then 
hurrying across and plunging into the woods on the 
other side. Whence these roads came or where they 
went, I neither knew nor cared. I was ignorant of the 
country, but not compelled to ask my way. For once, 
I was strangely independent, and needed only to look 
toward the sun and travel east. 

Later I came upon fields and farms, and round these 
I had to make long circuits. One chain of farms, I 
thought I never should get through. Again and again 
I was forced to go back and try again. The temptation 
to break through my resolution, and cross just this one, 
or that one, was very strong ; and I found that making 
one's escape, like any other success, depends on his reso- 
lution and perseverance. 

Toward noon, as I was approaching a road, I heard 
children's voices. I looked, and saw, or thought I saw, a 
man on horseback. He sat still as though on guard, 
and I supposed he was one of the enemy's picket. The 
w T oods were thin, so I laid down and drew the bushes 
over me. I watched him, but he did not move, and I 
soon decided I must stay there as long as he did. Not- 
withstanding my anxiety, I fell into a doze, probably 
not for a minute, yet when I opened my eyes, the man 
was gone, and a tree stood in his place. It was an 
optical illusion. My eyes had been over-worked for 
three nights, and for the last twenty hours, constantly 
strained in examining objects far and near. The 



THE ESCAPE. 141 

moment's rest had dispelled the apparition. I remem- 
bered that as the sun was rising that morning, I had 
long doubted whether a clump of bushes was not a 
group of my own men — that trees and stumps had 
several times been changed to sentinels and guards; 
and I remembered, also, the tents in the morning, and 
the camp-fires during the night. 

I now began to suffer from thirst, for I could only 
drink by dipping up water with one hand. The sun, 
too, beat down through the half-leaved trees, and 
became painful. I twisted some leaves into a sort of 
cap, but it was often brushed off, and at best made but 
a poor shelter. I had been disappointed also in not 
meeting a contraband. Some I had seen in fields, but 
always with white men, and them I must shun ; and as 
I did so, I asked myself whether this was the United 
States, and these Americans, that I should be thus 
skulking like a hunted criminal. 

Feeling now and then a little faint, I decided on 
going to a house for something to eat, and again 
plunging into the woods. Yet here great caution was 
necessary. I wanted a small house, because it would 
probably contain but one man, and I must have it out 
of sight of neighbors and near woods. I passed several, 
but none of them complied with my conditions — one 
was too large, another too far back in an open field, 
and a third was overlooked by a fourth. 

It was perhaps three o'clock, and I was growing more 
and more faint, when I saw an opening through the 



142 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

trees and the corner of a house. I approached it slowly. 
There was a field beyond, but no houses in sight, and 
the woods came np to the yard behind. " It is just the 
house I need," I said to myself, " and now I must risk 
it and go in." I slipped my pistol round, so that I 
could draw it quickly from under my coat, and pushed 
open the gate. All was quiet ; I walked round to the 
door, and saw a woman inside, who looked startled at 
seeing me. She said she would call her husband, who 
was in the field, and went out. I watched her, and in 
a few minutes was satisfied by seeing them returning. 
I went back, and narrowly inspected the house. A 
shot gun hung over the window, but it was unloaded and 
rusted. As I finished, they came in. He was a young 
man, with a bright, happy face — far too cheerful a face 
for a secessionist. We looked at each oilier, and he said : 

" You are a Union soldier." 

" Yes," I answered ; " and what are you ?" 

" I am a Union citizen," he replied. 

The word " Union" was something of a talisman ; if 
he had been a rebel, he would have said Federal. 

James Mills (for such was my new-found friend's 
name) was the first of several suffering and devoted 
Union men, who refused all pay and reward for the 
services they rendered to me, and whose kindness I 
cannot sufficiently praise. He told me I was in a dan- 
gerous neighborhood, and must neither stay, nor travel 
by the road. His wife hurried for me a dinner, and 
then he went with me through some fields and woods, 



THE ESCAPE. 143 

and placed me upon a path leading to a second Union 
man's, named Henry Chunn. It was something like 
three miles to Mr. Chnnn's. but I felt quite fresh and 
equal to a dozen, if necessary.- 

Arriving there, I was most kindly received by hi3 
wife. She told me that her husband would cheerfully 
take me on toward Paducah. She made me lie down ; 
she bathed my shoulder; and she did everything for 
me that womanly kindness could suggest. This was 
the first bed I had lain upon for more than three 
months. It produced an old effect, for in a few 
moments I was sound asleep. I slept till after dark, 
and then awoke by hearing the children cry that father 
had come. He came in, and walking up to me, said, 
in a cordial, honest voice : 

" My friend, I am truly glad to see you ; you are 
truly welcome to my house." 

I went to sleep again and slept till morning. There 
was bad news then : his mules had disappeared from 
the barnyard during the night. But I must wait ; his 
boys would find them by the time we finished break- 
fast. At breakfast a little circumstance occurred which 
may give you an idea of the different life we lead on 
the border. Across some fields, and beyond some 
woods, we heard a gun. It was no cannon— a mere 
shot-gun, such as a boy might fire anywhere on a 
spring morning — yet we all stopped talking. 

"What does that. mean?" I asked, after the silence 
had continued a few moments. 



144 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

" I don't know," said Mr. Chunn. 

"Have your neighbors guns and powder?" 

" No." 

" Then," said I, " it may mean a great deal for us." 

We all rose from the table, and looked anxiously 
across the fields ; but nothing was to be seen. The 
family looked troubled, and Mr. Chunn said something 
about the mules being gone, and this being strange. 
We waited some time, but all continued quiet. But 
the boys had not found the mules, and Mr. Chunn 
accordingly walked on with me toward the house of 
Mr. Edward Magness, who was likewise a good Union 
man, and would willingly help me on. 

I took leave of these kind, simple-minded people, 
whose plain and honest goodness is rare in the great 
world, from which they live apart, and went slowly 
along the little wood road. I soon came to a field in 
which were two or three men and several children, 
planting corn. I must here explain to you that in the 
South corn is the one great crop on which everybody 
lives. The bread is all made of corn ; the horses are 
fed on corn ; the pigs are fattened on corn ; and if the 
corn should fail there would be a famine. There were 
fears that it would fail. The spring had been cold and 
wet, and the planting was not half done, which always 
had been over a week before. All hands were working 
early and late on every plantation, seizing on this fine 
weather for hurrying in the corn. As Mr. Magness 
came down a furrow, near me, I stepped out of the 



THE ESCAPE. 145 

bushes, and told him briefly who I was, and what J 
wanted. It must have been an unwelcome tale; yet 
he never, by a look or word, gave a disagreeable sign. 
Promptly he stopped his plough and unhitched his 
horses. Unwillingly I saw the planting cease. But 
when I spoke of it, he said pleasantly, they would try 
and make up the lost time when he came back. We 
went to his house, the saddles were soon put on, and 
we started. My companion was more than usually 
intelligent, and gave me much information. He also 
understood the danger of being seen by secessionists, 
and picked his way with great care by unused roads. 

A ride of several miles brought us to the house of Mr. 
Wade. A very shrewd and cautious man was Mr. 
Wade, yet a staunch Union man, who had spoken, and 
suffered for the cause. He had spent the previous eight 
months chiefly at Paducah, stealing up occasionally in 
the dark of evening to see his family, and leaving before 
daylight the next morning. Once he had been arrested, 
and twice his house had been searched and robbed. He 
knew well the woods and by-paths, and had tried the 
difficulties and dangers of escaping from guerrillas. He 
and 1, therefore, had much more in common than the 
others, and in him I felt I had a trusty and experienced 
friend ; yet strange to tell, he was — a -South Caro- 
linian. 

We went into the house. On a couch lay a very aged 
woman, who, I thought, was childish. Mr. Wade and 
Mr. Magness were old friends, and talked as country 

7 



146 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

neighbors talk, of crops, and roads, and men, and places. 
At last Mr. Magness said : " I saw Edward Jones yes- 
terday, and lie told me they had had a letter from Joel, 
and that he wrote they were leaving Corinth, and had 
been attacked. His regiment was defeated, and he had 
to run for his life." 

The old lady, at this, rose np and said : " Say that 
over, sir." 

Mr. Magness repeated it. 

" He is my own grandson," said the old lady. " The 
night before he went he came here, and I told him 
never to fight against his country — the country his fore- 
fathers fought for. He said, ' Grandmother, they will 
call me a coward if I don't go.' A coward ! I would 
let them call me anything, I told him, before I would 
fight against my country. But he went. And, now, 
what do you tell me ? He is my own grandson — my 
own flesh and blood — so I can't wish him killed," said 
the old lady, with great feeling ; " but, I thank God — 1 
thank God he has had to run for his life /" 

Our early dinner finished, Mr. Magness took his 
departure, and we started. 

" We will stop at my brother-in-law's, captain," said 
Mr. "Wade, " and get you a better saddle. It is only a 
mile from here." So we rode quietly along. 

" We will pass our member of Assembly," said Mr. 
Wade. "It is about a mile from my brother-in-law's. 
He is a true man, I tell you. The secesh would give 
anything to get him." 



THE ESCAPE. 147 

By this time we reached his brother-in-law's. A 
little girl was in the yard, and, as we stopped, came to 
the gate. 

" Well, uncle," said the little girl, " are yon running 
away again from the rebel soldiers ?" 

" No," said Mr. Wade, cheerfully — oh no : there are 
no rebels round now." 

"Yes, there are," said the girl. "Father has just 
come from Farmingtori, and there are four hundred 
there." 

" What ! four hundred in Farmington !" 

" It is so, brother," said a woman who had come out — 
" it is so. They came there this morning ; and husband 
hurried back to tell the neighbors." 

" Captain," said Mr. Wade, " the sooner you and I 
get out of this country the better for us." 

" How far is it back to Farmington ?" 

" Only four miles." 

" Is there any reason for their coming down this 
road ?" 

" Yes : Hinckley, the member we elected, lives on it, 
and Jones, who helped elect him, lives on it, and I live 
on it. They would like to arrest us all. But about half 
a mile from Hinckley's there is a little side-path we can 
take for five or six miles." 

Could we have ridden on a gallop, the side-path 
would have been reached before the threatening danger 
could have reached us ; but, unfortunately, the pain in 
my side had increased so that we could not go faster 



14:8 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

than a walk. I tried a trot for a moment, but could not 
bear it, and reined up. " Do you ride on, Mr. Wade," I 
said : " there is no need of onr both being taken." But 
Mr. "Wade refused. 

It was an anxious ride. We knew that Farmington 
was not far behind, and they might come clattering 
after us at every moment. We looked back often — at 
every turn of the road — from the top of every knoll and 
hill, but nothing was seen. 

Soon we came to Hinckley's. Two men were seated 
on the porch, and the flag was flying in front of the 
house. I rode on ; but Mr. Wade stopped, and said, 
" Pull down your flag, boys, and take to the woods." 
It was quietly said, but the two men sprang up. I 
looked back, and saw them exchange a few words with 
Mr. Wade, and then one pulled down the flag as the 
other ran toward the stable. There was another anxious 
interval, and then we reached the side-road. We went 
past it, so as to leave no trail, and first one, and then 
the other, struck off through the woods until we came 
to it. A very intricate and narrow little road it was ; 
so that the enemy could not have travelled much faster 
than we. Yet there were some settlers, " but all good 
Union men," Mr. Wade said. At the first we stopped ; 
and he borrowed a butternut coat, and, with some diffi- 
culty, helped me of! with my soldier's blouse, and on 
with it ; so that to any person in a neighboring house 
or field we must have seemed like two farmers riding 
along. 



THE ESCAPE. 149 

After six or seven miles, our bridle-path came back 
to the main road. " There is a nasty, secesh tavern 
down the road a mile or so," said Mr. Wade, " and if 
they are in this part of the country, they will be sure to 
go down there for the news and a drink. If we can only 
get across the road and over to old Washam's, we shall 
be safe." 

Slowly we came out to the road. We stopped and 
listened — we held our breath, and bent down to catch 
the trampling of their horses. "We moved on where the 
bushes grew thickest, and stopped again. Then Mr. 
Wade rode out and looked up and down. " There is no 
one in sight," he said ; " come on quickly." I hurried 
my horse, and in a moment was across. On the other 
side were great trees and but little underbrush to hide 
us. We hurried on until we were hidden from the 
road, and then Mr. Wade drew a long breath, and said : 
" They won't come down this road. ; we are safe now." 

The danger past, there came a great increase of pain. 
Each step of the horse racked me, and I felt myself 
grow weaker and weaker. At last came the refreshing 
words : " Old Washam's is the next house," and soon 
the next house appeared. " A true Union man," said 
Mr. Wade, and true he seemed, for the flag was dis- 
played before the door. We stopped, but I was too 
exhausted to dismount, and had to slide off into Mr. 
Wade's arms. As I did so, an old lady with silver spec- 
tacles upon her nose and knitting in her hand, came out. 
" What is the matter with that poor man ?" she cried ; 



150 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

and then catching sight of my uniform under the butter- 
nut coat, "Why, it is a Union soldier ; bring him into 
the house — bring him in immediately." So I was 
brought in and laid upon a bed, and tenderly cared 
for. 

I lay there watching the knitting and listening to the 
old lady and her daughter's talk. They had a consulta- 
tion upon my safety, and it was decided that I should 
go to the daughter's house for the night. " It is off the 
road," they said, " and if they make an attack, we can 
send you word across the fields." But later, we learnt 
that two spies had passed the house that day, and it 
was decided I should be sent on that night. 

We were to start from the house of a son-in-law of 
Mr. Washam's, and he and his brother-in-law were to 
drive me. I walked up to the house, and found the 
wagon nearly ready. His wife was a young girl, with 
a sweet and gentle voice and manner. " It is too bad," 
she said, " too bad that you should go away so wounded 
and wearied. In peace, we would not let any one leave 
our home thus." Soon the wagon came to the door. 
" Mother," she said, " let us make up a bed in it." 

" Oh, no," I interposed, " I am not used to a bed ; I 
have not had one in three months, and cannot put you 
to such trouble." 

" It is no trouble to us," she replied, so earnestly and 
kindly, that I could not doubt it ; " do not think that 
of us." 

" But," I went on, " I assure you, some hay in the 



THE ESCAPE. 151 

wagon is all I want, and much more than I am accus- 
tomed to. Besides, I am dusty and dirty, and shall 
certainly spoil your bed clothes." 

" If it had not been for you Union soldiers fighting 
for us," she answered, " there would be nothing in this 
house to spoil ; and whatever we have, you shall have." 

Against such goodness and patriotism, who could 
raise objections ? The bed was made in the wagon ; 
they helped me up, and blessed by many good wishes 
and kind farewells, we started. For me it was so much 
more safe and comfortable than usual, that I soon fell 
asleep ; but to my two young friends, it was an unusual 
and an anxious drive. Frequently I was roused by the 
wagon stopping. Sometimes they heard dogs barking — 
sometimes voices, and once a gun. At length I woke, 
to find the wagon standing in front of a house, and 
young Washam thumping on the door. Soon a man 
came out. 

" Why, boys," he said, " what on earth are you doing 
here this time o' night ?" 

« Why you see, Mr. Derringer," said one of the 
" boys," u here's a wounded Union officer, hurt in the 
fight on the Obion. Joel Wade brought him to our 
house, and we've brought him here ; and now we want 
you to take him to Paducah." 

" I'm really sorry," said Mr. Derringer, " that I've 
lent my wagon ; but my neighbor, Purcell, is a good 
Union man, and he will do it. All of you come in, and 
I will go over and see him." 



152 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

I told Mr. Derringer to wait till morning ; but lie 
would not hear of it ; and after seeing us comfortably in 
bed, he started off to walk a mile or two and wake Lis 
s]eighbor in the dead of night, to tell him he must come 
a break of day and cany on a stranger, of whom he 
had never even heard, for no other reason than that he 
was a wounded Union officer. 

Before daylight, Mr. Derringer roused us. It was all 
right, he said ; his neighbor Pureell would be there ; 
and now his wife was up, and had breakfast ready. As 
breakfast finished, Mr. Piircell arrived; I bade my 
good friends good-bye, and started on the last stage 
of my journey. As we reached the main road, we saw 
numbers of men mounted on jaded mules, and clad in 
sombre butternut, with sad and anxious faces. Unhappy 
refugees flying from the invading foe ! Some who had 
journeyed through the night, rode with us toward 
Paducah; others who had reached it the day before, 
rode anxiously out in quest of news. As many caught 
sight of me, they recognized the marks of recent service. 

"Are you from the Obion P they asked ; " how far 
off is the enemy now ? Will he dare to come here V 

We drew nearer to the.town, and the signs of alarm 
Increased. The crowd of refugees grew greater — the 
cavalry patrolled the roads — the infantry w T as under 
arms, and the artillery was planted so as to sweep the 
approaches. At last some houses appeared. 

" This is Paducah," said Mr. Pureell ; " you are there 
at last." 



THE ESCAPE. 153 

We stopped at headquarters, and I went in to report. 

" Is the adjutant in ?" I asked of an officer who was 
writing. 

" I am the adjutant, sir," he answered, without look- 
ing up. 

"I have come to report myself as arriving at this 
post." 

« What name, sir ?" 

I gave my name. • The adjutant looked up, and with, 
some surprise, said : 

" Why, you are reported killed, sir ; two of your men 
saw you lying dead under your horse !" 

" How many of my men have come in ?" 

" About half; they are at the Provost Marshal's." 

" Any officers ?" 

" Yes ; one of your lieutenants was taken, but escaped, 
and came down from Mayfield by railroad. And now," 
said the adjutant, " don't stay here any longer ; go at 
once to the hospital, and I will send an order to the 
medical director to give you a good surgeon." 

A few moments more, and I caught sight of a group 
of my men. Then came the painful questions : Who 
have come in ? Who are missing ? Who last saw this 
one ? Who knows anything of that one ? Where does 
K's family live ? and who will write to tell them how 
he fell ? And then came a surgeon — a quiet room — a 
tedious time — an old friend — and a journey home. 



7* 



154: SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

X. 

THE LA'ST SCOUT. 

The Tennessee, October, 1862. 

Fkom ISTew York to Fort Henry might once have been 
an interesting- journey, but campaigning has robbed 
travelling of its charm, and henceforth I fear it will be 
but dull work for me. The railroad bore me swiftly to 
the mouth of the Ohio ; I have looked again on Cairo 
in its dirt and mud, Paclucah with its dusty streets and 
hospitals, and now I am on the banks of the Tennessee. 

But I am here only to close my service in the West. 
and to say good-bye to my comrades of the Fifth; to 
get Gipsy, and to recover my sabre. I have had an 
interesting soldier-life in Tennessee — more interesting 
than I shall have again — and I leave it with regret. 

With me so many things have happened here on 
Sunday, that you must not be surprised that it is 
Sunday now. It was on Sunday that Donelson surren- 
dered — on Sunday that I went upon my first foraging — 
on Sunday that I entered Paris with a flag — on Sunday 
that we began our first retreat — and it is Sunday now 
that I am starting on my last scout. 

The party consists of the men of my old squadron, 
most of whom were with me in the spring. They have 
not been to the Obion since, and quickly guess that our 
destination is Lockridge Mill. 



THE LAST SCOUT. 155 

It is a beautiful October day, and the tall Tennessee 
corn stands ripe in the fields, though the woods are as 
green as they were last June. The Muscadine grape is 
purple, and the persimmon trees are scattered thickly 
along the road. Yet the frost has not sugared all of the 
persimmons, and when we taste one which it has not 
touched, our mouths are drawn up as though we had 
tasted so much nut-gall. The weather and the woods 
are all that we can wish, and my life in Tennessee will 
be interesting to its close. 

The road is one that I have not passed over with you, 
for it would not be safe for us to go by Paris and Como. 
Too many people would guess our destination if we did, 
so we reverse the circle, and hope to come back that 
way. This road will lead us through a bad neighbor- 
hood, where the guerrillas have many friends. Last 
week cotton and tobacco were burnt near Boydsville ; 
and we know of large bodies of them up the river, who 
have succeeded King's cavalry, and may swoop down 
on us at any time. We need, therefore, to use much 
care and caution, and- be always on the watch. For 
many miles our ride has not been marked by anything 
unusual ; but it is now evening, and we are approaching 
a little hamlet. "We reach it — we have seen no one, 
and no one has seen us ; but every door is closed, and 
every house is empty. I do not like this. The advance 
guard has noticed it too, and halted for orders. 

" Push on, corporal," I say ; " be very watchful ; send 
two of your men well ahead, and keep on at a trot." 



158 SKETCHES OF THE WAE, 

No one is seen, and no sound is heard for some timey 
and then we meet a man on horseback, who has" drawn 
out to the side of the road for us to pass. A sergeant 
leaves the column and tells the man that he must come 
with us; and, much against his will,. he does so. But) 
not long afterwards, we halt to feed our horses. 

" Send Corporal Morton and four men back a mile as 
a picket. Let them take corn with them and feed two 
of the horses, while the others go further down the 
road. Then change and feed the others, and, when all 
are done, come in without further orders." 

The advance guard pursue the same plan, and then I 
turn to the man on horseback. 

" I have been up to the doctor's for medicine for my 
wife," he says, " and she's expecten of me back. I wish 
you would let me go, sir." 

" I cannot now," I answer ; " but I will try to let yoia 
off soon." * 

" Couldn't you let me go now, sir? She's real sick. 
Here's the medicine, just as I got it from the doctor. 
You can look at it if you want to ; and she'll be scaret 
bad if I don't come. I'll give you my word not to say 
anything to anybody, if you don't want me to." 

The man is very earnest ; he has the medicine, and 
he appears very truthful. I am afraid you will think 
me quite cruel when I answer : 

" I am sorry ; but it's my duty to detain you. You 
cannot go." 

The man sits down beside the gate, and the sergeant 



THE LAST SCOUT. 157 

who lias liim in charge sits down with him, where, I 
fear, they do not enjoy themselves. 

The owner of the house stepped out as soon as we 
arrived, and good-naturedly invited us in ; finding that 
we wished to feed, he showed the way to the corn-cribs, 
and dealt out his corn with a free hand. But one 
object in our halt here is to arrest him. As he returns 
from the cribs, I tell him I wish to speak to him ; and 
we walk to the house. 

a Mr. Bennett," I say, " you are a soldier in the 
Southern army." 

" No, sir. I was, but I've been discharged." 

" Let me see your discharge." 

His wife searches for it in a wardrobe, and in a few 
minutes b rings it to me. It states that he was d 



'S 



1S- 



charged from the service of the Confederate States on 
account of physical disability. 

" You left, then, because you could not serve any 
longer." 

" Yes, sir." 

" Had you a pass through our lines ?" 

" No, sir." 

" Have you reported to any of our officers, or taken 
the oath ?" 

" No, sir." 

" Don't you know you are violating military law, and 
are liable to be arrested ?" 

The man says nothing. The three children, who 
have watched the reading of the " discharge " as though 



158 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

it were a safeguard, turn their frightened faces upon 
me, and his wife moves nearer and says pleadingly : 

" Oh, sir, he is sick. He can't fight any more, and 
will never go again. He is willing to take the oath, 
and was going down to take it last week." 

" Why did you not go ?" 

" I heard there would be an officer up at Boydsville, 
and that I could take it before him. I acknowledge I 
ought to have gone down before." 

" "Well, you have answered so frankly against your- 
self that I will take your word for this. Go down to 
the fort by Thursday, report yourself to the command- 
ing officer, and take the oath." 

The man promises he will, and his wife thanks me 
and gives many assurances that she has had enough of 
the war. We have a little talk about the rebellion, 
and then I go out. The man whose wife is sick still 
sits by the gate, and looks up entreatingly as I pass. 
But the horses have finished their feed, and the rear 
guard is coming up the road. 

" You may go now, sir," I say to him, " and I regret 
that you have been stopped ; but be careful to tell no 
one that we are here to-night." 

He promises, mounts his horse, and rides away. I 
wait until he is out of sight, and then order the men to 
mount. Mr. Bennett comes up and shakes hands, and 
I ask him which is the road to Boydsville, and how far 
it is there. He tells me it is about eight miles, and 
says: 



THE LAST SCOUT. 159 

" So you are going to Boydsville, are you ?" 

" Yes," I answer, " we're going that way. Good 
night." And we move off at a trot, upon the Boyds- 
ville road. 

It is three o'clock in the morning, and we are bivou- 
acked in a large field far hack from any road or house. 
Last night we soon left the Boydsville road, and then 
crossed over to a third one, and stopped here about ten. 
The moon now shines brightly, and all is still as though 
it were midnight ; but the camp guard is calling up the 
men, and me must resume our march. When the sun 
rises we shall be many miles away. 

As we approach Boydsville, we meet a couple of 
wagons with boxes and goods. They are stopped, and the 
usual questions put. " Where are you from?" " Where 
were these goods bought ?" " Have you the government 
permits to buy goods ?" The men reply that they have 
come from Faducah, and produce the bills of goods, all 
properly stamped by the United States inspector, so 
we let them pass. 

It is now nearly noon, and we cannot be many miles 
from Lockridge Mill. Once or twice some man has 
thougbt he remembered a house or hill as one he had 
passed in our retreat ; but no one has felt sure of this. 
At last we come to a cross-road, and four houses which 
bear the name of Buena Yista ; and, as we reach it, every 
man starts and looks about him. There is no mistaking 
this ; we have been here before, and have good cause to 
remember the place. It was here they fired on us 



160 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

across the corner of the field ; here, some of the men 
turned the wrong way and had to come back ; and here, 
the side of the road was gullied out like the bars of a 
gridiron, and I wonder more now than 1 did then that 
my horse ("ne'er such another") ever crossed it at a 
gallop as I rode beside the column. 

The squadron halts here ; but I select eight men, and 
keep on. We think that an hour's ride will take us to 
the spot where my horse fell, and another will bring us 
back. But retracing a road ridden over in such a man- 
ner by moonlight, and at another season of the year, is 
no easy task. Yet here eight heads prove better than 
one ; for, it often happens that out of the eight, there 
will be only one who noticed a little something, and 
only another who noticed a little something else. 
Before long, however, there is another burst of excla- 
mations, for another noticeable place appears — a long, 
straight stretch of road between two wooded knolls, and 
covered with the stumps of young trees as thickly as 
though they had been driven down by hand. Well do I 
remember how, when I caught sight of it, I ordered the 
men to pull up and cross slowly, and how I turned and 
watched for the enemy to reach the knoll and open 
their rifle fire before we should be over. Yet, after 
passing this, the noticeable places are few, and then 
cease. We turn down this road and that one, and come 
back, finding nothing that we can remember. If it 
were not for the sabre, I would give up the search and 
go back. At last, only one of the party believes the 



THE LAST SCOUT. 161 

spot we are seeking is still before us, and even his faith 
in his memory is shaken. We have been two hours 
instead of one, and have found nothing yet. We have 
ridden since three this morning, and the day has sum- 
mer heat. Shall we keep on ? Yes, a little farther. I 
must find my sabre. But we come to a house hidden 
beneath a clump of apple trees, a wide field, a high 
fence and a large tree. It is my turn to remember 
now — how inch by inch I toiled up that hill, and how 
beneath that tree I tried and failed, and failed and tried 
to climb that towering fence. 

A little farther on a road turns off, and the men are 
sure that it was this road we took. At the turn (wher- 
ever it may be), there was on that evening a man with 
a yoke of oxen, who came near being run down. As 
we stand discussing the question, a contraband comes up. 

" Sam," says one of the men, " do you remember the 
fight on the Obion last spring ?" 

" Yes, sah," says Sam ; " I like to been killed thar." 

" You did ! how so ?" 

" Why, just as the soldiers were a com en along, I was 
a stanclen right here on this here very corner with our 
ox-team, and for all the w r orld I thought they'd a run 
over me." 

" What ! are you the man with the oxen ?" I exclaim. 

" Yes, sah," says Sam; "I'm the yery man." 

" Then, Sam," I say, " you are the very man we want, 
and must go along and show us where the soldiers went 
that night." 



162 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

We dismount, and half the men take the horses to 
the nearest house to feed, and, with the others, I walk 
on. The men say they remember it, but to me it is all 
a blank. The main events 1 recollect clearly, but my 
fall, I find, knocked the last three miles of the ride 
entirely out of my memory. We go on nearly two 
miles, and I see nothing that I can recall. Then the 
road goes down a series of steep descents — so steep I 
wonder if I ever did ride down them on a runaway 
horse. As we descend one of these I stop, for before 
me, as in a dream, stand two trees, and through them I 
see the fallen trunk and branches of another. I do not 
expect to see the remains of my horse, for I have 
already learnt that he staggered bleeding to a house 
near by, and was seized by the enemy. But this is the 
spot — I am sure of it. 

" I think it was farther on, captain," says a corporal, 
" that I saw your horse down — I think it was there, and 
you must have crawled down to the brook at that 
place." 

I will try the corporal's place first, and I walk rapidly 
down there. I reach the bank of the brook, and my 
heart fails me, for the brook is dry ; its waters cannot 
hide the sabre now. I look above and below, and there 
is no sabre to be seen. But this is not the place — there 
is no log here — I knew it was higher up ; so I jump 
down into the bed of the stream, and walk eagerly up. 
Above me is a point, and when I turn that point I am 
certain I shall see the log — and perhaps the sabre. I 



THE LAST SCOUT. 163 

reach it, and am pushing through the bushes that over- 
hang the brook, when a sergeant calls out, " Here it 
is." Yes, there is the log, and beneath it, just as I 
threw it in, lies the sabre. Rusted and broken and 
never to be drawn again, it is a thousand times more 
precious than when, burnished and bright, I first 
received it. I know it is valueless, and that its beauty 
and its usefulness are gone, but the happiest moment 
of my soldier-life is when I find my ruined sabre. 

In the twilight of evening we return to Buena 
Yista. Very anxious have I been for the last two 
hours, and very anxious seem the men, as they stand 
round their saddled horses, at our prolonged absence. I 
have heard of two different parties of guerrillas in front 
and on our right, and the men have heard of a third in 
the rear. Our horses are too tired to march far, and we 
have already been here too long. The left seems clear, 
and to the left is Lockridge Mill, and our road back — 
but too many have already guessed that we are going 
there, and the men have asked too many questions to 
keep our destination a secret, as hitherto it always has 
been. It is such situations as this that make the 
cavalry service so interesting ; and in its miniature 
strategy is a constant charm. The question, What shall 
be done? must be answered quickly, and one needs 
move skillfully when he is surrounded by difficulties. 
Here the roads cross somewhat like a letter X. Up the 
first we marched in the morning, down the second we 
hr-.ve just come ; the third we have no real interest in ; 



164 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 



and the fourth leads to Lockridge Mill. The men 
mount, wheel into column ; I order " trot" " trot out" 
and we move rapidly up the third road. ISTo sooner out 
of sight of the houses at our starting place, than we 
come down to the slowest of walks. Whenever a l^ouse 
appears, we are seen on a trot ; and whenever the house 
is passed, we find ourselves on a walk. Thus we appear 
to be going rapidly up this road, when we are in fact 
moving slowly. Some three miles up is a watering 
place, the only one, and there our thirsty horses must 
drink. As we pass the last house, its pack of dogs 
bark, and its inmates come out and look at us go by. 
Then we go down, down, down into a damp, cold, 
wooded ravine. In its depths we find a muddy stream, 
and the horses plunge their nostrils deep, and quaff it 
thirstily. We come out on the other side, and halting, 
dismount. 

Nothing could seem more strange or be more unusual 
than halting in such a spot, and at such an hour ; yet 
no man asks a question, or appears surprised. Those 
who have been at the cross-roads all day, gather in little 
groups and talk ; and those who have been with me, lie 
down and doze. Wonderful are the effects of discipline 
and experience ! A year ago how agitated would these 
same men have been, and how discussed this inexpli- 
cable delay ! Now they are undisturbed, and leave it 
all to me. The videttes ride in and whisper reports, 
and ride out again with whispered instructions; yet 
this man relights his pipe, and that one goes on with 



THE LAST SCOUT. . 165 

his story. At length the Tennessee bed time is passed, 
and the videttes from the front " come in." The orders 
are given, " Be silent ;" " Hold your sabres so that they 
will not clank ;" " By file to the right ;" and we are 
retracing our steps to Buena Yista. Biding by file 
makes a less intense noise, though the column is 
stretched out to twice its usual length, and the noise 
lasts twice as long. We mount the hill noiselessly, and 
I look with anxiety at the house. Do I see a light ? 
No, 'tis but the moon glimmering on the window panes. 
We approach it — the dogs are as si]ent as the men. I 
am before it, and check Ida to her slowest walk — the 
column behind me hardly moves, and the horses seem 
to tread lightly. We are past, and no cur has yelped or 
person seen us — our first strategic movement is success- 
ful. " It was done first rate," whispers the sergeant 
behind me ; " we got ahead of the dogs that time." 

On our left there is a corn field, with the tall Southern 
corn still standing. We halt, and two men dismount, 
and, in the shadow of a tree, take down the high rail 
fence.' The column, turning in, passes up a corn row to 
the other side of the field ; the two men, remaining, 
carefully replace the fence. The shadow of the tree 
hides our trail, and we have left no other sign behind 
us. On the other side of the field is a little basin, 
unploughed and grass-covered, wherein our horses are 
picketed. As I ride around it, I find they are com- 
pletely hidden away; it is perfect for our purpose. 
The sentinels stand on the rising ground behind us, and 



166 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

in the clear moonlight, see over a wide expanse of fields ; 
and here we lie down and securely sleep. 

It is three in the morning, and the men have left 
their cavalry couches, and are silently rolling their 
blankets and saddling their horses. We leave the field 
as we entered it, replacing the fence and turning toward 
Buena Yista. How surprised the owner will he when, 
harvesting his corn, he stumbles on the traces of our 
mysterious bivouac. The country still sleeps in the 
chill, silent moonlight, and very chilly and silent are 
we ; but by and by the day breaks, and, as the sun 
rises, we descend into the dark, damp valley of the 
Obion. The direction of our march is reversed- — so is 
the hour, and so are all the circumstances, yet we feel 
awed by the memories of last May. Every fallen tree 
or muddy hollow has a tale — here this man's horse was 
shot, here another was wounded, and here a third nar- 
rowly escaped. On the bank of this little stream, the 
man who leads was taken prisoner ; over it Tennessee 
made an unequalled jump; in this mud hole, five horses 
went down, and further on, near the bridge, our major 
fell. Looking at it calmly and critically, it seems even 
worse than it did then, and I wonder how one of us 
escaped. 

We reach the bridge; the thickened foliage leaves the 
valley less open, yet I can, in fancy, see again that long 
column bearing down upon us. What a strong position 
it is ! how easily we could have held it, had we been 
armed like the enemy ! And here are the house and 



THE LAST SCOUT. 167 

tlie barn-yard, and Bischoff shows us the very place 
where the little black horse made his famous leap ; and 
Mr. Lockridge comes out and points to some graves, 
and his wife repeats some dying words. They beg us 
to stay to breakfast, and say that though they suffered 
last spring, they have been blessed with an abundant 
harvest; but we do not feel like breakfasting there 
now, and pass on to some of the houses where the flags 
w T ere waved, and where the welcome is worthy of the 
flag. 

A long day has this been for us — sultry and hot — the 
streams dried up — the wells a hundred feet deep — and 
our horses have suffered much. We are still seven 
miles from Como, when two mounted men are seen 
behind us. " Bring those men in, sergeant ;" and 
the sergeant wheels about and soon comes back with 
them. 

" I must trouble you to ride with us awhile, gentle- 
men," I say ; u I wish to talk with you." 

" We are going to Cottage Orove," says one of the 
men ; " it is seven miles off, to the left, and as we have 
ridden a long distance to-day, I hope you won't take 
us far." 

" I will see about it," I say ; and we ride on. 

One — two — three miles, and it begins to be no joke 
to the men, and they plead their loyalty, and give their 
names and proffer their honor ; but all the answer they 
get is, " I am sorry for you— I know it's hard ; but I 
cannot let you go." 



1GS SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 

Four — five — six miles, and they ask : 

" Do you mean to take us to Como ?" 

" Yes." 

" And when we get there, do you mean to ]et us 
go?" 

" No." 

u It's further from Como than from where we met 
you, and our horses are tired, and our folks will be 
frightened." 

" I am sorry for you — I know it is hard ; but I cannot 
Let you go." 

" Mr. Hurt knows us, and will vouch for us." 

« "Well, I will see Mr. Hurt." 

Como is reached at last. Our secession friend's barn- 
yards are still standing, and half the men halt there ; 
this time to trouble him for supper as well as forage. 
With the rest I continue down the road that I walked 
up so anxiously when I was last here. I dismount and 
walk to the steps, where stands Mrs. Hurt. We come 
from a guerrilla country, and in the twilight she does 
not recognize me. I can see in her frightened look and 
agitated manner, that she thinks we are some of her 
Southern brethren. I therefore hasten to announce 
myself by saying, " How are you, Mrs. Hurt ? I have 
come back for that tea you were getting for me last 
spring." A very joyful meeting it is ; and Mr. Hurt is 
called, and we shake hands as though we had been life- 
long friends, and say to each other that we can hardly 
believe our acquaintance was but of the part of a single 



THE LAST SCOUT. 169 

day. Trouble and danger bring people very quickly 
close together. 

But the two men all this while have been sitting on 
their horses at the gate, and now they cough loudly. 

" Come here," I say to Mr. Hurt, " and tell me if you 
know these men, and they are trustworthy." 

"We walk to the gate, and Mr. Hurt bursts into a loud 
laugh. "Why," he says, "you have arrested the only 
two Union men there are in Cottage Grove !" 

I am vexed, but I cannot help laughing ; and the men 
are vexed, but they, after a minute, laugh too. 

" Don't tell it up there," says Mr. Hurt, " or the 
secesh will laugh at you all your lives ;" and then we 
shake hands, and they ride away. 

I need not tell you that this time we stayed to tea ; 
nor how we talked over the events of the former visit ; 
and how everybody remembered where everybody sat, 
and what everybody did, and every word that every- 
body said. But it is time to go, and though Mr. Hurt 
will not hear of it, we saddle up, and bidding them 
many good-byes, resume our march. 

Last spring when we crossed the Tennessee, two men, 
named Anderson and Faris, came into camp as refugees 
from Paris. When I was in Paris with the flag, some 
one came behind me and said, in a whisper, " Tell 
Anderson and Faris not to come back !"" As we 
guarded the Holly Fork next day, Anderson and Faris 
appeared. I stopped them, not on their account, but 
for the reason that I would not let anybody pass ; and 

8 



170 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 

afterward they came down and stayed chiefly in camp. 
On our expedition to the Obion, Faris had been our 
guide. He was taken, a court-martial was held, at 
which a neighbor of his — one Captain Mitchell — was 
the chief manager and witness; and Faris was sen- 
tenced as a spy, and hung. He met his death bravely, 
writing a calm and heroic letter to his wife upon his 
coffin. 

We have all wanted to catch Master Mitchell ; and 
now, on our way from Mr. Hurt's, I accidentally learn 
that last evening he came into Paris. "We have been 
on the road since three this morning, and it is eleven 
now ; but this opportunity shall not be lost, though he 
is a cunning fellow, who probably will not stay 
two nights in the same place. And now we halt 
at the house of an old Unionist, who bears a striking 
resemblance to General Scott, and whose fine old house 
is surrounded and overshadowed by a noble grove, 
equal to our Battery in its better days. 

" Call me at half-past one," I say to the corporal of 
the guard ; u and relieve guard in an hour." 

" Half-past one, captain," says the corporal. 

" Call up the men." 

The men turn out promptly after their two hours' 
sleep. 

" The moon seems pretty much in the same place," 
says one. 

" No wonder," answers another, " it's only half-past 



THE LAST SCOUT. 171 

Nothing more is said, and no surprise expressed. If 
yon could Hear them, you would think that going to 
bed at eleven and rising at half-past one is their usual 
course. 

"We pass quietly out of the beautiful grove, and wend 
our way toward Paris. Paris is not altogether safe ; 
Captain Mitchell's visit may have been the forerunner 
of a guerrilla raid. *At three in the morning we have 
passed Mrs. Ayres', and are on the outskirts of the 
town. The men are informed of the object of the 
movement, and are burning with the desire of taking 
him. There # is no need of the order, u If he attempts to 
escape, shoot him, cut him down, give him no quarter." 
Those who know the house form a party to surround it, 
and the rest a reserve to look at the court-house square 
and see if there be any guerrillas there. "We descend 
to the little stream that bounds Paris ; we climb the 
hill, and enter its empty streets. The men are riding 
by file, and intent as I am on my object, I am struck 
with the strange, spectral appearance of this long line 
of horsemen slowly winding through the silent town. 

We approach the house, and the sergeant who has 
charge of the party dismounts half his men ; they fasten 
their horses, and climb the fence. There is an instant's 
exciting pause, and then the men on foot rush to the 
back of the house, while the others gallop to the front ; 
the house is surrounded. I dismount and enter the 
gate, and as I do so the front door opens, and a woman 
and two or three girls come out. 



172 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 

" Is Captain Mitchell in this house ?" I say to the 
woman, whom I naturally take to be his wife. 

" No, sir." 

" When did he leave it ?" 

" I don't know, sir." 

" Is this Mrs. Mitchell ?" 

" No, sir. My name is Mrs. . I don't live 

here." 

He has either escaped, I think, or is still in the house, 
and this party has been sitting up with him ; so I say, 
somewhat sarcastically : 

" Are you ladies in the habit of being up till three 
in the morning ?" 

" No, sir. To-night we are sitting up with a sick 
person." 

" How sick?" I say, not half believing the reply. 

There was a young girl of fifteen standing beside the 
woman, who had earnestly watched me, and she ans- 
wered my question : 

" She is my sister," she says in a trembling voice — 
u she is my sister, and she is dying." 

" It is so," says the woman. " The doctor says she is 
in the last stages of diphtheria, and can live but a few 
hours. Captain Mitchell came back because he heard 
she was dying. If you don't believe me, you can come 
in and look for yourself." 

" No," I answer, " if this family is in such affliction, 
we will be the last persons to intrude. I will withdraw 
the most of my men ; and you, my girl, may go back to 



THE LAST SCOUT. 173 

your sister, and feel assured that no one shall disturb 
you during the remainder of the night." 

They seem surprised, and, thanking me, go in. I post 
a man at each corner of the house, and the others go 
back to bivouac in the court-house square. I am much 
perplexed what to do. It shall not be said that we 
searched a house while a girl was dying, and yet it may 
be a trick, and he within. Walking up and down upon 
the court-house steps, I think the matter over, and 
determine on this course : There is a physician attend- 
ing this girl, and there is another here in whom I can 
implicitly trust. At sunrise I have routed these two 
gentlemen out, and marched them down to the house. 
I then send for Mrs. Mitchell. She comes out, pale from 
night-watching, and looks with no friendly eye on the 
pursuers of her husband and the disturbers of her child. 

" Captain Mitchell is not here," she says calmly. 
" He took leave of his daughter, and went away yester- 
day. She has only an hour or two to live." 

" I don't dispute your word, Mrs. Mitchell ; I feel for 
you in your affliction, and know how harsh and unkind 
my actions must seem ; but it is my duty to search this 
house. Yet I will do all I can for you. I will keep my 
guards on the outside ; or I will let Dr. Matheson go 
with your physician, and if they report to me that your 
daughter is as ill as you say, then I will let them make 
the search." 

"I don't object to this, sir; it will not frighten my 
daughter." 



174 SKETCHES OF THE "WAR. 

The two doctors go in, and Mrs. Mitchell continues 
standing beside me on the piazza. 

" You have a hard lot," I say; " your husband away 
at such a time — near you, and yet unable to return." 

" Yes, a very hard lot," she answers with a sigh. 

The two doctors come out, and Dr. Matheson says : 

" She is nearly gone ; it is diphtheria — the last 
stage." 

" Then search the house, gentlemen, thoroughly, from 
top to bottom, in every room and closet; examine 
every bed and corner." 

They come out again, and report that he is not in the 
house. The guards return their sabres and march 
away ; and Mrs. Mitchell, to my surprise, holds out her 
hand and says, " I don't blame you, sir, for what 
you've done ; I wish all others had treated us as 
kindly." 

Much as I desired, to arrest him, I confess that I am 
greatly relieved. Arresting a father at the bedside of 
his dying daughter would mar the pleasant memories 
of my last scout in Tennessee. 



I am gliding down the beautiful river, its crystal 
waters sparkle in the sun ; and Fort Henry is- lessening 
on my sight : the tall hills opposite sink down, the 
flag-staff and the waving flag alone are left. Now, 
farewell, Tennessee 1 



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